iiiij 


OWEN  Kl  LDARE 


I  ii 

In! 

1 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER  F  MORRISON 


/V\ 


The 
Good  of  the  Wicked 

and 

The  Party   Sketches 


h 

OWEN  KILDARE 
i\ 

Author  of  "My  Mamie  Rose,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO. 

33-37  EAST  i7TH  STREET,  UNION    SQUARE    NORTH 


COPYRIGHT,  1904 
BY  OWEN  KILDARE 

All  right!  rtstrved 


Published  August,  1904 


The  Greenwich  Press,  New. York,  U.  S.  A. 


PS 
35* 


PREFACE. 

A  few  words  to  explain  the  appear 
ance  of  this  little  volume  may  not  be 
inappropriate. 

In  the  last  chapter  of  my  first  book, 
My  Mamie  Rose,  I  gave  a  brief  out 
line  of  my  short  career  as  a  journalist. 
The  reception  of  the  book  was  surpris- 
mgly  generous  and  a  wealth  of  letters 
came  from  all  parts  of  the  country, 
bringing  words  of  sympathy  and  en 
couragement.  Among  them  were  quite 
a  few  inquiring  after  other  work  which 
I  might  have  done  during  my  three 
years  as  a  writer. 

It  was  difficult  to  give  definite  an 
swers  to  these  inquiries,  as  my  work 
had  appeared  in  the  columns  of  various 
publications,  with  which  I  had  been 


432951 


PREFACE. 

connected  at  different  times.  But  the 
demand  was  sufficient  to  incline  me  to 
collect  at  least  some  of  my  shorter 
sketches  and  present  them  in  book 
form.  So,  these  sketches  of  The 
Party  appeared  in  the  Evening  World 
during  the  summer  of  1902.  They  are 
based  on  truth  and  their  purpose  is  to 
demonstrate  that  beneath  the  rough 
manner  and  language  of  my  people  of 
the  tenements  emotions  and  sentiments 
common  to  all  humankind  are  pulsing. 

To  account  for  the  absence  of  the 
"slang,"  which  is  often  offered  and  ac 
cepted  as  the  Simon-pure  Bowery 
lingo,  The  Party  sketches  are  preceded 
by  The  Responsibility  for  Slang,  an 
editorial  written  by  me  for  the  Sunday 
Press. 

The  Good  of  the  Wicked,  which 
names  this  volume,  is  printed  here  for 
the  first  time. 


PREFACE. 

I  offer  no  apologies  for  any  short- 
jmings  you  may  find  in  the  following 
pages.  That  there  is  room  for  criti 
cism  I  know  full  well.  However,  this 
volume  is  not  prepared  for  critics,  but 
for  the  friends,  who  have  watched  my 
progress  and  who  will  find  perhaps  a 
comparison  here  between  the  work  of 
the  beginning  and  the  work  of  the 
present.  As  to  future  development, 
my  next  book,  Souls  of  the  Humblel  a 
novel  of  the  lesser  people,  to  be  pub 
lished  in  September,  will  give  the  best 
indication. 

That  you  are  about  to  read  The 
Good  of  the  Wicked  is  proof  that  you 
are  my  friend,  and  as  a  friend  I  want 
to  keep  you,  because  there  is  no  greater 
blessing  than  friendship. 

OWEN  KILDARE. 
May,  1904. 


CONTENTS. 

THE  GOOD  OF  THE  WICKED n 

THE  RESPONSIBILITY  OF  SLANG 45 

THE  PARTY  SKETCHES" 

I.    The  Hanging  Garden 55 

II.    The  Simile  of  the  Roses 60 

III.  The  Awe  of  Nature 64 

IV.  Into  the   Dust 69 

V.     A  S.  P.  C.  A.  Volunteer 75 

VI.     A  Soiree  Musicale 79 

VII.     The    Mother-in-law 84 

VIII.    Variations   on   the   Descent   of 

Man    90 

IX.    Along  Our  U.  S.  Rhine 94 

X.    Down  to   Coney 99 

XI.    An  Object  Lesson 104 

XII.    On  the  Road  to  Swelldom....  108 
XIII.    The     Bearer     of     the     Olive 

Branch   112 

XIV.     A  Bargain  Day 117 

XV.     Correspondence    122 

LITTLE  STORIES  FROM  OUR  STREETS  : 

I.     Canal  Street  and  the  Bowery.   131 
II.     Cooper  Square   135 

III.  Twenty-fifth  Street   138 

IV.  Catharine  Street  143 


THE   GOOD    OF    THE 
WICKED 


THE  GOOD  OF  THE  WICKED. 


S 


C  (0  /""^  AY,  Dominick,  you're  all  to 
the  good!  There  ain't  a 
hotel  in  the  city  where 
they  could  beat  this  feed." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,  Charlie.  But 
if  I  were  you  I'd  leave  a  little  room  for 
the  piece  of  resistance,  as  they  call  it 
uptown.  Wait  till  you  taste  the  bird 
before  you  burst." 

This  little  pleasantry  was  uttered  by 
Dominick  Levitt,  who,  at  the  head  of 
the  festive  board,  played  the  part  of 
host  to  perfection. 

It  was  a  freak  of  our  irrepressible 
human  nature  which  had  decreed  this 
meeting  of  kindred  spirits  on  this 
Christmas  eve. 

As  long  as  one  could  remember 
Dominick  Levitt  had  run  The  Royal. 


12  THE   GOOD 

First  a  sailors'  hang-out  of  the  worst 
type,  it  had  kept  pace  with  the  progress 
of  the  titties  dnd  had  developed  into  a 
"sporting  house,"  remarkable  for  the 
absence  of  sport  and  sporting  men.  In 
view  of  the  fact  that  certain  factions 
have  seen  fit  to  apostrophize  The  Royal 
from  their  narrow  standpoints,  we  will 
do  best  to  know  the  place  through  an 
unbiased  description  of  it,  delivered  by 
the  proprietor  during  a  recent  judicial 
proceeding. 

"The  Royal  is  as  safe  a  place  for 
anybody  to  go  into  as  any  o'  them 
places  uptown.  If  people  in  our  neigh 
borhood  had  more  money  to  spend,  and 
if  there  was  as  many  'easies'  as  up 
town,  there  would  be  the  same  electric 
lights  and  other  fixings  that  can  hide  a 
whole  lot  on  the  outside.  And  as  to 
the  piano  in  the  back  room  ?  Uptown 
they  got  operas  and  plays  which  we 
ain't  got.  So  I  put  in  that  agony-box 


OF   THE   WICKED  13 

that  they  could  have  a  little  music  or 
singing  with  their  glass  o'  beer." 

Asked  if  his  patrons  did  not  belong 
to  the  criminal  or  disreputable  classes, 
Levitt  became  justly  indignant. 

"I  ain't  got  no  right  to  ask  anybody 
that  comes  into  my  place  what  their 
business  is.  Whilst  they're  in  my  place 
they  got  to  behave  themselves  and — 
they  know  it.  And  I  defy  anybody  to 
say  they  ever  lost  a  dollar  in  The 
Royal,  which  is  as  decent  a  family  re 
sort  as  any." 

Only  a  carping  hair-splitter  would 
have  found  flaws  in  the  above  state 
ment.  It  was  technically  correct. 
Downtown  temperaments  are  less  sub 
dued  than  those  of  uptown.  So,  at  the 
very  first  outbreak  of  choleric  argu 
ments,  the  offenders  were  always 
speedily  removed  from  The  Royal.  Its 
probity  was  equally  convincing.  It  is 
still  told  with  recollective  shudders 


14  THE  GOOD 

how  Levitt,  surprising  "Tippy"  Mason 
in  the  act  of  "lifting  a  super"  from  an 
inebriated  patron  of  The  Royal,  sub 
jected  the  light-fingered  gent  to  a 
"deal,"  which  kept  him  in  the  hospital 
for  months. 

Levitt  could  not  be  expected  to  be 
the  guardian  of  the  people  who  hung 
about  his  place.  If  they  chose  to  make 
the  acquaintance  there  of  some  one, 
who,  some  hours  afterwards,  and  in  a 
strange  locality,  would  find  himself 
dazed,  sick  and  thoroughly  cleaned 
out,  was  he  to  blame  for  it  ? 

Still,  there  were  those  who  insisted 
on  calling  The  Royal  a  "dive." 

Business,  in  spite  of  official  and  in 
official  interference,  had  been  very 
satisfactory  during  the  past  year  and 
Dominick  Levitt  determined  to  cele 
brate  his  increased  prosperity  in  suit 
able,  if  not  unprecedented  manner.  It 
had  come  to  his  ears  that  Frank 


OF    THE   WICKED  1 5 

Stevens,  who  operated  a  similar 
"family  resort,"  had  given  a  "blow 
out,"  as  reward  for  their  services,  to 
the  "regulars,"  who  were  instrumental 
in  making  the  "easies"  spend  their 
money.  Levitt,  also,  had  a  staff  of 
regulars  and  was  man  enough  to  admit 
that  without  them  his  nightly  receipts 
would  suffer  a  perceptible  decrease. 
Again,  the  thought  that  Frank  Stevens 
could  outdo  him  in  anything  was  un 
bearable  to  Levitt. 

Therefore  it  was  determined  to  cele 
brate. 

Here  Levitt's  train  of  thought  ran 
foul  of  a  snag.  Celebrate  what  ? 

This  matter  could  not  be  decided  off 
hand  and  during  the  major  part  of  the 
night,  while  engaged  in  seeing  that 
"he  was  getting  all  that  was  coming  to 
him,"  Levitt  pondered  how  to  fit  the 
case  to  an  occasion.  Such  meditation 
was  sure  to  bring  results  and,  seem- 


1 6  THE  GOOD 

ingly  apropos  of  nothing,  Levitt  sud 
denly  startled  his  bartenders  with  the 
vehemence  of  his  inspiration. 

"I  have  it!  Christmas  eve!  Give 
them  the  finest  "lay-out"  ever,  and  in 
the  back  room !  Close  the  whole  back 
room,  excepting  for  them,  and  don't 
care  how  much  money  I  lose !  Like  to 
see  Frank  Stevens  beat  that !  Eh  ?" 

The  disconnected  sentences  were  ut 
tered  to  the  accompaniment  of  banging 
fists. 

Dominick  Levitt  was  a  man  of  ac 
tion.  Although  it  was  over  a  week  un 
til  Christmas,  he  began  that  very  night 
the  most  important  part  of  the  prep 
arations,  the  selection  of  the  guests. 
Seating  himself  on  his  high  stool  at 
the  end  of  the  bar,  a  vantage  point 
affording  view  of  front  and  back 
rooms,  he  inspected  the  crowd  to  pick 
those  to  be  favored. 


OF  THE   WICKED  17 

Of  course,  Charlie  Fenton,  the  man 
ager  of  The  Royal  and  the  proprietor's 
factotum,  was  first.  "Reb"  Sherlock, 
ex-confederate,  and  now  faro  dealer, 
because  of  his  genteel  looks  and  be 
havior,  was  next  chosen.  Then,  men 
tal  selection  was  made  of  "Italian"  Joe, 
"Dutch"  Oscar,  and  "Sheeney"  Ike, 
a  cosmopolitan  trio  of  shoe-string 
gamblers ;  "Second-story "Connors  and 
"Flim-flam"  Myers,  two  gentlemen  de 
pending  on  their  wits  for  support ;  and 
"Plug"  Duffy,  a  dimly  glittering  star 
of  the  fistic  firmament. 

"That's  eight,  and  ought  to  be 
enough  for  a  nice  little  party,"  mur 
mured  Levitt,  counting  his  male  guests. 
"Now  for  the  girls." 

I  am  grieved  at  having  to  record 
that  Levitt  found  the  selecting  of  his 
female  guests  a  more  difficult  task.  It 
was  an  exceedingly  intricate  proceed 
ing  to  weigh  their  merits  and  demerits. 


1 8  THE    GOOD. 

There  was  Sadie  Clayton,  almost 
chosen  and  then  rejected,  because  it 
was  simply  impossible  for  her  to  take 
a  few  drinks  without  becoming  a  noisy 
breaker  of  the  peace.  Rosie  Delaney, 
admitted  to  be  good  company,  was  re 
jected  on  account  of  her  argumentative 
inclinations  when  in  mellowed  condi 
tion.  "Dotty"  Lyons,  another  jolly 
girl,  was  repudiated  on  account  of  her 
vocalism,  which  broke  forth  at  the 
most  inopportune  moments.  But, 
though  it  was  tiresome  work,  Levitt 
succeeded  at  last  in  culling  from  the 
weeds  the  fair  flowers  to  grace  his 
feast. 

To  extend  the  invitation  to  the 
chosen  was  the  next  duty. 

"Say,  Reb,  you'll  do  me  a  favor  if 
you  come  'round  here  on  Christmas 
eve,  about  eight  o'clock,  and  have  a 
bite  of  something  to  eat  with  me  and 
a  few  friends,"  was  the  quintessence 


OF  THE   WICKED  19 

of  politeness  with  which  the  ex- 
confederate  soldier  was  approached. 
From  this  Chesterfieldian  pitch  the 
"invites"  ran  through  minoring  varia 
tions  to  the  summons  to  "Plug"  Duffy, 
the  fighter,  who  was  bidden  to  "show 
up  on  Christmas  eve,  about  eight  p.  M. 
if  you  want  a  feed  with  all  the  trim 
mings  of  the  season." 

In  addition  to  being  invited  they 
were  cautioned  to  keep  the  thing  quiet. 

"Not  that  I  care  a  continental 
whether  the  others  get  jealous  or 
not,"  explained  Levitt.  "Only  we 
want  to  have  a  good  time  by  ourselves 
and  I  don't  want  to  have  to  get  up 
every  five  minutes  to  throw  some  o' 
them  out  on  their  heads  that  want  to 
force  themselves  in  where  they  ain't 
wanted." 

The  appointed  time  was  not  long  in 
coming  and  it  was  freely  admitted  that 
the  event  had  been  worth  while  wait- 


20  THE   GOOD 

ing  for.  They  were  completely  dum- 
founded  on  beholding  the  arrange 
ments  made  in  their  honor.  It  was 
evident  that  no  expense  had  been 
spared  in  perfecting  every  detail.  But 
what  they  did  not  know  was  that 
Levitt  had  undergone  cruel  incon 
venience  and  trying  embarrassment  to 
make  his  treat  a  strictly  correct  affair. 

To  see  how  the  swells  do  these 
things,  Levitt  had  visited  several 
flashy  restaurants  to  study  at  closest 
range  the  methods  and  particulars  of 
the  art  of  dining.  So,  becomingly 
attired  in  silk-trimmed  dinner  suit, 
violet-tinted  necktie  and  cluster  of 
diamonds  in  bosom  of  his  shirt,  Levitt 
received  his  guests  in  the  back  room 
of  the  dive. 

The  table  in  the  center  of  the  big, 
bleak  room  fairly  glittered  with  silver 
and  glassware.  Even  several  enor 
mous  stands  of  flowers  had  been  pro- 


OF  THE  WICKED  21 

ided.  Appreciation  of  the  imposing 
elaborateness  was  by  no  means  silent, 
and  Dominick  Levitt  oozed  pompous 
self-satisfaction. 

The  arrivals  were  punctual  and, 
after  assigning  them  to  their  seats, 
Levitt  took  his  place  at  the  head  of 
the  table  to  deliver  a  few  appropriate 
remarks. 

''The  first  thing  in  order  is  to  wish 
you  all  a  Merry  Christmas  and  hoping 
you'll  behave  yourselves.  It  ain't  for 
me  to  be  poking  my  nose  into  your 
private  affairs,  but,  I  guess,  most  o' 
you  people  ain't  had  what  you  may 
call  a  regular  Christmas  dinner  in 
some  time.  Anyway,  I  don't  think 
you  ever  had  anything  like  this  lay 
out  in  your  lives.  The  whole  thing  is 
fixed  up  just  the  same  as  up  in  Del- 
monico's  or  any  o'  them  places,  and 
I  hope  you  won't  tackle  it  the  same  as 
if  it  was  a  beefstew  in  Cheap  John's. 
Now,  let  her  go  1" 


22  THE   GOOD 

They  had  no  further  progressed 
than  the  soup  before  Charlie  Fenton 
voiced  the  enthusiasm  of  the  party 
with  the  remark,  which  opens  this 
faithful  chronicle  of  the  blow-out  at 
The  Royal.  In  fact,  they  fell  to  with 
such  ardor  that  Levitt  found  it  neces 
sary  to  remonstrate. 

"If  I  was  you  people,  I  wouldn't  eat 
as  if  I  wanted  to  choke  myself.  There 
ain't  none  o'  the  bunch  got  to  catch 
a  train  and  swell  folks  always  do  a 
lot  o'  talking  between  the  rounds, 
which  is  the  style  and  good  for  the 
digestion." 

"Right  you  are,  Dominick,"  shouted 
"Plug"  Duffy,  the  fighter,  "When  I 
got  the  decision  over  Toby  McGloin, 
a  couple  o'  swells  blew  me  off  to  din 
ner  up  at  the  Hoffman  and — " 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,  cut  it  out,  Plug," 
interrupted  "Hat-pin"  Mary.  "If  you 
ain't  had  a  dinner  since,  it  ain't  our 


OF   THE   WICKED  23 

fault.  But  we  don't  want  to  hear  that 
same  old,  ancient  history." 

"Ah,  what  d'  you  know  about  it?" 
growled  the  plug-ugly.  "All  I  got  to 
do  is  to  show  me  face  on  Broadway 
and  I  can  have  the  best  there  is  in  the 
line  of  eating  and  drinking.  I  ain't 
no  mixed-ale  fighter.  If  them  referees 
wasn't  crooked,  I'd  been  a  champeen 
long  ago." 

"Say,  Plug,  for  heaven's  sake,  wake 
up,"  tantalized  the  girl.  "When  you're 
in  one  o'  them  pipe  dreams  you're  see 
ing  things.  I  bet  there  was  many  a 
Christmas  when  a  hunk  o'  corned  beef 
and  cabbage  would  have  been  as  wel 
come  as  the  flowers  in  May,  tra-la." 

The  bunch  was  still  laughing 
at  Plug  Duffy's  discomfiture  when 
"Merry"  Colwell  took  up  the  defence 
of  the  despised  viand. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  people  got 
against  corned  beef  and  cabbage.  Up 


24  THE   GOOD 

home,  in — well,  where  I  come  from, 
it's  a  lucky  day  when  we  can  get  it. 
Throughout  the  year  it's  salt  pork, 
and,  if  the  crops  are  poor,  it's  salt  pork 
for  Chirstmas,  too." 

"Reb"  Carlisle  anticipated  Levitt  by 
breaking  in  on  the  reminiscences. 

"Let  me  suggest  that  we  bury  our 
pasts.  I  suppose  we  all  have  memories 
that  are  awkward  at  times,  but,  there 
is  no  use  of  crying  over  spilled  milk. 
We  are  here  to  enjoy  ourselves  and 
not  to  deplore  what  can't  be  undone." 

"That's  it,  Reb,"  concurred  Levitt. 
"This  ain't  the  time  or  place  for  to 
be  digging  up  the  bones  in  our  grave 
yards.  Don't  be  kicking.  It  don't  pay. 
Take  life  as  it  comes.  Here  you  got  a 
lay-out  that  can't  be  beat,  with  fillets, 
and  rottees,  and  pommess  day  terrees, 
and  all  you  got  to  do  is  to  enjoy  your 
selves." 


OF  THE   WICKED  25 

Gayety  was  restored  and  Levitt 
could  again  officiate  as  arbiter  of  fash 
ionable  customs.  He  took  care  that 
his  guests  were  properly  attended  by 
the  specially  engaged  French  waiters, 
and  just  as  careful  that  the  guests 
should  commit  no  "bad  breaks"  in  the 
presence  of  the  servitors.  In  a  word, 
Levitt,  considering  himself  the  only 
one — with  the  possible  exception  of 
Reb  Carlisle — who  had  ever  eaten  a 
"real  swell"  dinner  in  swell  surround 
ings,  appointed  himself  dictator  of  the 
occasion. 

So,  when  the  waiters  left  the  room 
with  the  debris  of  the  last  course, 
Levitt  mentioned  a  few  foibles  of  so 
ciety,  hoping  these  hints  would  be  un 
derstood. 

"May  be  you  won't  believe  it,  but 
them  people  uptown  never  eat  with 
their  knives  at  all.  They — " 


26  THE    GOOD 

"Ah,  what  are  you  giving  us  now," 
doubted  "Second-story"  Connors.  "Me 
and  me  pal  was  going  uptown  the  other 
night  on  a  little  business,  and  we 
passed  the  St.  Dinny  Hotel  whilst 
they  were  feeding  inside  and  every 
one  o'  them  had  a  knife  in  their  fist. 
Stop  your  kidding,  Dominick.  They 
don't  eat  with  their  fingers." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  interposed 
Levitt.  "I  mean  they  only  cut  their 
meat  with  their  knives,  but  they  don't 
use  them  for  to  feed  themselves. 
Every  bit  they  put  into  their  mouths 
they  pick  up  with  their  forks  and — " 

"Hully  Gee,"  laughed  "Fourth 
Ward"  Hattie.  "No  wonder  it  takes 
them  so  long  to  get  through  with  their 
meals." 

Levitt,  quite  unintentionally,  had 
given  the  dinner  a  humorous  turn.  To 
eat  like  society,  the  diners  began  to 
use  their  forks  in  accurate  manner  and 


OF   THE   WICKED  27 

many  mishaps,  like  dropping  part  of 
the  heaped  victuals  from  the  unwonted 
vehicles,  gave  occasion  for  much  mer 
riment. 

When  the  coffee  and  the  liqueurs, 
accompanied  by  cigars  for  the  gents 
and  cigarettes  for  the  ladies,  were 
served,  the  feeling  of  content  was 
manifested  by  the  general,  genial  smile. 

"Flim-flam"  Myers  interpreted  the 
prevailing  sentiment. 

"Say,  give  me  a  feed  like  this  once  a 
week,  and  I'd  be  willing  to  go  hungry 
the  rest.  Gee,  may  be  this  ain't  living." 

The  postprandial  smoke  did  not 
conclude  the  festivities.  As  soon  as 
the  dishes  had  been  removed  Levitt 
gave  a  signal  to  the  waiters,  and  again 
rose  for  a  few  remarks. 

"When  I  was  getting  up  this  little 
affair  I  first  thought  I'll  pay  some  o' 
them  regular  actors  for  to  come  and 
entertain  us.  But  seeing  as  we  got  all 


28  THE   GOOD 

kinds  o'  talent  right  amongst  ourselves 
I  went  to  work  and  got  some  o'  the 
fizzy-wizzy  instead,  and  hope  you'll  do 
justice  to  it." 

"None  o'  that  for  me,"  screeched 
"Diamond"  Lizzie.  "I  know  your 
forty  -  cents  -  a  -  quart  fizzy  -  wizzy, 
Dominick.  Beer  and  booze  is  good 
enough  for  me." 

"Now,  be  a  good  girl,  Lizzie,"  en 
treated  Levitt.  "This  ain't  no  fake 
stuff.  You  can  all  look  at  the  stamp 
on  the  cork  and  see  that  it's  genooine 
French  shampain.  I  only  sell  the  other 
to  the  'easies,'  but  don't  blow  me 
friends  off  to  it." 

Sure  enough,  it  was  the  real  thing, 
"genooine  French  shampain,"  and  with 
the  realization  came  the  devouring. 
Within  an  hour,  the  condition  of  the 
"bunch"  was  a  fearful  thing  to  behold. 

"Italian"  Joe  and  "Scar-face"  Mag 
gie  were  howling  what  they  called  a 


OF   THE   WICKED  29 

"love  duet";  "Diamond"  Lizzie  tried 
very  strenuously  to  remove  a  few  lamp 
globes  with  her  toes;  "Plug"  Duffy 
was  challenging  the  whole  world  to  a 
battle  royal ;  "Reb"  Carlisle  was  recit 
ing  the  battle  of  Winchester  in  install 
ments  ;  Dominick  Levitt  was  serenely 
listening  to  the  praises  of  his  satrap, 
Charlie  Fenton;  and  the  three  shoe 
string  gamblers  were  playing  a  game 
of  freeze-out  with  crackers.  The 
others  were  engaged  in  similar  pas 
times. 

Aside  from  the  crowd  and  the  noise, 
near  the  door  leading  to  the  "family 
entrance,"  sat  "Hat-pin"  Mary  and 
"Merry"  Colwell.  "Hat-pin"  had 
drawn  the  other  girl  away  from  the 
table  as  soon  as  the  roistering  began. 

"Say,  Merry,  them  talking  about 
that  corned  beef  and  cabbage  got  you 
all  broke  up,  didn't  it?"  began  Hat 
pin.  "I  could  see  it  the  minute  you 


30  THE   GOOD 

began  to  talk  that  you  thought  you 
was  home  and — say,  where  do  you 
come  from,  anyway  ?" 

Merry  Colwell  had  guarded  her  his 
tory  with  jealousy,  and  no  one  in  the 
dives  knew  anything  of  her  antece 
dents,  but  the  genuine  interest  of  her 
present  companion  could  not  be  denied. 

"I'm  from  up  in  the  Berkshire 
Hills." 

"Where's  that,  and  is  it  finer  than 
it  is  on  the  Bowery?"  asked  the  old 
stager,  with  childish  sincerity. 

"Is  it  ?"  Merry's  eyes  blazed  with  in 
dignation  and  offended  pride.  "Why, 
it's  like  God's  country  up  there,  in  the 
hills,  and  everybody  is  good,  and  it's 
my — oh,  it's  much  nicer." 

The  girl  looked  before  her  with 
that  fixed  stare  which  tells  of  a 
struggle  within.  It  is  oftenest  seen 
when  the  wells  of  tears  are  threaten 
ing. 


OF    THE    WICKED  3! 

The  two  women  sat  silent  for  a  long 
time,  apparently  watching  the  others, 
in  reality  thinking,  thinking,  dreaming 
of  that  which  had  become  unattainable 
to  them. 

The  veteran  spoke  first. 

"Say,  Merry,  that  name  o'  yours 
don't  fit  you  at  all  to-night.  You  don't 
look  a  bit  like  it.  How  did  you  get 
that  funny  handle  anyway?" 

"My  name  is  Merriam,  Merriam 
Colwell,  and  they  shortened  it  here  by 
accident,  just  the  same  as  they  did  at 
— oh,  don't  ask  me  those  questions." 

The  drawn  look  on  the  girl's  face 
was  pitiful. 

"Say,"  remarked  Hat-pin,  "that 
homesickness  must  be  something 
fierce?" 

"Don't  you  know  how  it  is  ?" 

"Me?"  the  question  made  Hat-pin 
roar  with  laughter.  "Say,  I  don't 
know  how  that  word  'home'  spells, 


32  THE  GOOD 

leave  alone  know  what  it  means. 
What's  it  like?" 

"Why,  home  is  the  place  where  you 
were  born,  where  your  father  and 
mother  lived  before  you,  and  live  with 
you,  until  you  get  married  or — " 

"Go  ahead  with  your  story,  Merry, 
I  understand  you  all  right." 

Merry  looked  gratefully  at  the 
woman  beside  her. 

"And  it  is  the  place  where  everybody 
loves  one  another  and  where — where — 
oh,  I  can't  tell  you,  it's  simply  home." 

Again  they  relapsed  into  silence. 
But  now  Hat-pin  did  most  of  the 
thinking — and  to  some  purpose. 

"Listen,  Merriam,"  she  said,  at  last, 
accompanying  the  use  of  the  girl's 
proper  name  by  putting  her  arm 
around  the  other's  waist.  "You  ain't 
cut  out  for  this  kind  o'  life.  Ml  kill 
you  in  less  than  no  time.  Not  the 
bumming  'round  so  much  and  the 


OF  THE  WICKED  33 

booze,  but  the  aching  you  got  there,  in 
your  heart,  that's  what'll  do  it.  Whj 
don't  you  go  home  ?" 

The  question  came  so  unexpectedly 
that  Merry  Colwell  was  nonplused  for 
the  moment. 

"I  can't,"  she  replied. 

"Yes,  you  can,"  Hat-pin  broke  in 
fiercely.  "You  can  and  you — " 

"Good  evening,  girls.  Do  you  know 
that  this  is  Christmas  eve?"  A  mis 
sionary,  in  company  with  other  work 
ers  from  a  nearby  rescue  mission,  had 
entered  unnoticed.  "Do  take  this  leaf 
let,  and  let  me  talk  to  you." 

Hat-pin  scowled  at  the  interruption. 

"Go  about  your  business,  lady.  Go 
ahead,  and  don't  bother  us." 

"But  you?  Won't  you  let  me  talk 
to  you  ?  You're  so  young,  and,  surely, 
you  won't  refuse  to  listen  to  the 
Blessed  Word?" 


34  THE   GOOD 

Disregarding  Hat-pin's  rebuff,  the 
missionary  accosted  Merry  Colwell. 
The  girl's  listless  attitude  made  her 
seem  a  probable  convert. 

The  worker  moved  as  if  to  sit  down 
beside  Merry.  Like  a  demon,  Hat-pin 
jumped  from  her  chair  and  grabbed 
the  missionary  by  the  shoulders. 

"Go  on,  now ;  go  on !  Save  some 
o'  the  others,  if  you  can,  and  if  they  let 
you,  but  there's  nothing  doing  here. 
We  know  where  your  mission  is  and 
we  can  come  there  if  we  want  to.  Go 
on." 

The  missionary  went  up  the  room. 

Hat-pin  turned  to  Merry. 

"Now,  you  got  to  go  home.  Do  you 
hear?" 

"Oh,  what  are  you  talking  about? 
I  can't,  Hat-pin,  I  can't,"  whimpered 
the  girl.  "My  mother  is  home  and — 
why  don't  you  go  home  yourself?" 


OF   THE   WICKED  35 

"What,  me?  Me  go  home?"  Hat 
pin  laughed.  "Say,  if  I  ever  had  a 
mother  it's  more  than  I  know.  And 
my  home?  My  home  is  right  here, 
or  any  place  where  there's  a  chair  or 
a  bed  to  sleep  in.  D'  you  think  I'd  be 
sitting  here  if  I  had  a  home  or  a 
mother?  Not  on  your  life.  And  as 
for  you,  I  don't  know  much,  but  I 
know  this  much,  that  there  ain't  a 
mother  who  would  go  back  on  her  girl 
on  Christmas  morning.  You  got  to  go 
home,  Merry." 

"I  don't  see  why  you're  making  all 
this  fuss  about  me?"  said  the  Colwell 
girl  petulantly.  "I  was  'round  this 
neighborhood  last  Christmas,  and  I 
didn't  feel  this  way.  I  guess  it's  the 
wine  that  put  these  foolish  thoughts 
into  my  head.  Besides,  even  if  I 
wanted  to  go  home,  I  couldn't,  because 
I  haven't  got  the  money." 


36  THE   GOOD 

"If  the  fizzy-wizzy  wine  put  them 
ideas  into  your  head  it's  the  first  good 
thing  that  stuff  ever  did,"  argued  Hat 
pin.  "If  you  didn't  feel  this  way  last 
Christmas,  it  was  because  this  was  all 
new  to  you.  But  that  wears  off  quick. 
As  for  the  money  for  your  ticket,  I'll 
have  that  in  a  minute." 

Before  Merry  could  stop  her,  Hat 
pin  rushed  to  Dominick  Levitt. 

How  she  did  it,  Merry  could  not  tell, 
but  Levitt  peeled  off  the  outside  layer 
of  a  fat  roll  of  bills  and  handed  it  to 
the  go-between.  Ere  Merry  had  fully 
realized  what  had  happened,  Hat-pin 
was  back  again. 

"Now,  here's  your  ticket,  and  now 
get  out  as  quick  as  you  can." 

The  bill  was  pressed  into  Merry's 
numb  palm. 

"But—" 

"No  'but'  now!  Come  on,  and  go 
home,  or  I'll—" 


OF   THE   WICKED  37 

The  threat  was  not  finished.  It  was 
unnecessary.  Hat-pin  had  earned  her 
sobriquet  by  the  promiscuous  use  of 
that  feminine  weapon,  and  her  temper 
was  known  to  be  dangerous. 

But  was  it  really  the  menace  which 
made  Merry  Colwell  yield  ? 

"Hat-pin,  I  think  I  will  go  home." 

"Good  girl." 

It  so  happened  that,  at  the  same 
time  with  the  two  girls,  the  missionary 
reached  the  "family  entrance"  to  pass 
out  after  her  fruitless  visit. 

Hat-pin  saw  her  opportunity. 

"Say,  lady,  will  you  take  care  o'  this 
girl?"' 

The  missionary  stopped  with  puz 
zled  look. 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

Hat-pin  stepped  to  the  sweet-faced, 
earnest  woman  and,  holding  Merry's 
hand,  whispered  at' great  length. 


432951 


38  THE   GOOD 

"I  will  gladly  do  what  I  can  to  see 
this  young  girl  safely  home  and — what 
is  your  name?" 

"Hat-pin,  just  Hat-pin  Mary." 

"Won't  you  come  along,  Mary?" 
pleaded  the  worker.  "Come,  let  me 
take  you  home,  too,  to  your  mother." 

"I  ain't  got—" 

"Well,  then,  won't  you  come  with 
me  ?  Come,  and  you  and  I  shall  honor 
the  birthing  day  and  prepare  ourselves 
for  the  near  and  better  New  Year. 
Won't  you  come?" 

"Honest,  I'd  like  to  oblige  you,  see 
ing  that  you're  so  kind  to  my  friend 
here,  but,  I  guess,  you'll  have  to  ex 
cuse  me  this  time." 

Hat-pin  was  stubborn  and  no  per 
suasion  could  move  her. 

"God  bless  you,"  said  the  missionary 
in  parting. 

"So  long,  Merry,"  was  Hat-pin's 
farewell. 


OF   THE    WICKED  39 

Bells  and  chimes  sent  into  the  air 
above  them  the  glorious  message  of 
this  Christmas  day.  Along  the  coun 
try  road,  greeted  by  the  welcoming 
sun,  a  girl  came,  slowly  and  hesita 
tingly,  towards  the  old  farm.  Shame, 
not  fear,  dragged  her  steps,  for  in  the 
door  of  the  old  homestead  stood  the 
white-haired  mother  with  outstretched 
arms. 

In  a  quiet,  modest  room  in  the  city, 
the  missionary  prayed,  on  her  knees, 
to  the  Lord. 

"Dear,  loving  Father,  give  that  the 
girl  may  find  this  the  day  of  truest 
home-coming,  and  that  she  may  never 
stray  again  from  the  path,  which  You, 
in  Your  wisdom,  have  set  for  her. 
But,  Father  of  Love  and  Mercy,  give, 
give  me  the  strength  that  I  may  soften 
the  heart  of  the  other,  and  bring  to  her 
what  she  has  never  known — love,  your 
love,  oh,  God !" 


4O  THE   GOOD 

Hat-pin  ? 

At  The  Royal  the  revelers  had  de 
parted.  Only  one  remained. 

In  the  darkest  corner,  huddled  in  a 
chair,  sat  Hat-pin — snoring. 


THE  RESPONSIBILITY 

FOR  SLANG 


THE    RESPONSIBILITY    FOR 
SLANG. 

WE  have  a  well-grown  habit 
of   making  conveniences 
of   certain   localities. 
Every  city,  town  or  hamlet  has  within 
its  limits  a  district,  perhaps  only  one 
small  block,   which  has   to   shoulder, 
deservedly  and  undeservedly,  all  sorts 
of  iniquities. 

In  our  metropolis  there  is  in  every 
borough  a  district  which  by  press, 
police  and  social  student  is  constantly 
pillorized  as  the  home  of  and  the 
source  whence  all  that  is  bad  comes. 
Some  say  that  even  in  evil  a  rivalry 
for  supremacy  is  always  going  on,  but 
whether  it  is  so  or  not  is  not  to  the 
point  in  this  instance,  as  the  crown  of 
wickedness  of  all  the  boroughs  has 


46  THE  RESPONSIBILITY 

long  been  placed  on  the  long-suffering 
and  well-scarred  brow  of  the  Bowery. 

This  status  of  the  Bowery  is  so 
firmly  accepted  that  it  would  require  a 
gifted  champion  to  destroy  the  un 
justified  opinion.  Writers  who  have 
made  the  Bowery  their  mine  of  ma 
terial  prefer  to  have  the  present  im 
pression  remain  for  purposes  of  their 
own,  and,  instead  of  attempting  to 
eradicate  it,  emphasize  it. 

So  many  untrue  things,  in  form  of 
learned  report  or  literary  caricature, 
have  been  said  about  the  Bowery  that 
the  old  thoroughfare  has  sunk  to  the 
stage  of  dignified  resignation  and  lets 
the  talk  and  scribbling  go  on  without 
an  effort  at  defense. 

Until  a  few  years  ago,  when  the 
signs  of  the  times  became  strongly 
powerful,  the  Bowery  had  been  the 
clearing  house  of  the  human  refuse  of 
the  city.  All  classes,  creeds  and  na- 


FOR   SLANG.  47 

tionalities  had  their  representatives 
here — for  temporary  and  permanent 
stays — and  from  all  this  concourse  of 
dialect  and  patois  evolved  itself  some 
thing  which  has  since  passed  under  the 
name  of  Bowery  slang. 

It  should  not  be  forgotten  that 
hardly  any  of  those  who  had  a  hand 
in  the  manufacturing  of  this  idiom 
were  there  by  choice.  Illness,  intem 
perance  or  crooked  inclinations  had 
reduced  them  to  the  most  primitive 
conditions,  in  which  the  getting  of  the 
wherewithal  for  bed  and  minimum  of 
food  were  paramount.  Can  it  be 
imagined  that  men  whose  sleeping  and 
waking  hours  were  surcharged  with 
the  one  worrying  thought  of  how  to 
get  the  pittance  for  their  needs,  in 
spite  of  their  hindering  obstacles,  all 
glaringly  evident,  would  find  the 
necessary  idle  moments,  the  inspiring 
leisure  to  invent  the  more  or  less 


48  THE   RESPONSIBILITY 

amusing  terms  of  expression  which 
excite  our  risibilities  when  heard  in 
daily  intercourse  or  on  the  stage? 

Men  who  become  abject  slaves  to 
hopelessness  and  carelessness  do  not 
only  become  careless  as  to  appearance 
and  sanitary  condition,  but  become  also 
careless  in  their  mode  of  speech.  It 
is  for  this  reason  that  the  faults  of 
Bowery  language  are  to  be  found  in 
grammar  and  enunciation.  One  whose 
head  aches  with  pain  and  whose  stom 
ach  quakes  with  hunger  is  very  apt  to 
trip  up  on  the  proper  usage  of  "shall" 
and  "will."  Later  on,  always  exposed 
to  downward,  not  refining  influences, 
he  will  make  occasional  substitutions 
of  "them"  for  "those"  and  "these." 
Finally  the  "th"  will  deteriorate  to 
"d." 

That  the  unnecessary  multiplication 
of  many  negatives  in  one  sentence  is 
not  peculiar  alone  to  the  Bowery  will 


FOR    SLANG.  49 

be  conceded,  but  here,  with  the  harsh 
intonation  and  other  grammatical  de 
ficiency,  it  becomes  more  pronounced. 
I  have  before  me  a  page  which  was 
taken  at  random  from  one  of  a  series 
of  "True  Stories  from  the  Under 
World,"  written  by  a  man  whose  repu 
tation  was  a  hundredfold  increased  by 
his  profound  knowledge  and  under 
standing  of  the  scenes  described  by 
him  so  accurately  and  graphically. 
This  page  was  read  to  and  by  a  man 
who  since  his  fifth  year — he  is  now  al 
most  forty — has  lived  on  the  Bowery. 
It  was  not  unintelligible  to  him,  the 
general  sense  of  this  supposed  con 
versation  between  two  men  of  his 
sphere  slowly  came  to  him,  but  every 
second  sentence  had  to  be  re-read  and 
he  frequently  asked,  "What's  he  mean 
by  that?" 

Still  the  stories,  and  especially  their 
language,  have  been  indorsed  as  cor- 


5O  THE   RESPONSIBILITY 

rect  by  men  famous  here  and  abroad 
(more  particularly  by  the  latter). 

Expressions  like  "Hully  gee!" 
"Hey,  cul !"  are  not  entirely  unheard, 
but  are  handed  down  from  the  stage 
and  used  by  the  facetious. 

Recently  I  happened  to  witness  the 
performance  of  a  team  known  far  and 
wide  as  the  "typical  Bowery  boy  and 
girl"  in  a  home  of  refined  vaudeville. 
The  following  was  one — not  the  most 
elaborate — of  their  "typical"  expres 
sions  :  "Say,  Polly,  if  I  sees  that  cove 
putting  up  his  snoot  to  them  ruby 
kissers  o'  yourn  again  I'll  soak  him  in 
the  slats  till  his  teeth  falls  out  like 
a  bunch  o'  beans." 

The  making  of  that  sort  of  slang 
which,  with  all  else,  is  piled  on  to  the 
shoulders  of  the  Bowery,  comes  from 
the  bourne  literary  and  dramatic,  from 
those  who  are  original  by  being  unin 
telligible. 


FOR   SLANG  51 

The  Boweryite  excels  in  directness. 
He  will  express  himself  briefly  and 
forcibly,  but  never  so  that  the  services 
of  a  slang  authority  as  interpreter 
would  be  necessary. 

The  crimes  committed  in  under 
world  are  sufficiently  many.  There  is 
no  need  of  this  more  recent  offense  of 
slang  being  put  at  the  door  of  the 
Bowery.  Let  those  who  manufacture 
it  in  the  quiet  of  their  literary  studios 
assume  the  responsibility  for  it. 


THE   PARTY   SKETCHES 


THE  PARTY  SKETCHES. 

I. 
THE  HANGING  GARDEN. 

LISTEN! 
I  have  no  use  for  a  fellow 
who  thinks  his  Party  is  no 
more  than  something  like  a  trolley  car. 
That  all  he's  got  to  do  is  to  take  it  on 
a  run  and  catch  it,  and  that  that's  all 
there's  to  it. 

There  isn't  a  day  that  I  do  not  come 
across  something  new  in  my  Party. 

And  that's  what  I  want.  I  want  to 
know  and  understand  her  all  in  all. 

As  for  me,  she  has  me  sized  up  long 
ago — has  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  am  not  the  cream  of  perfection,  but 
that  I  about  would  just  suit  her. 

Now,  where  she  works  they  have  a 
lot  of  typewriters — both  machines  and 


56  THE    PARTY    SKETCHES. 

girls — and  some  of  them  are  very  fond 
of  flowers — the  girls  are. 

The  other  day  one  of  them  took  off 
the  window  sill  a  little  plant,  all  yellow 
and  dried  up. 

The  Party,  who  is  something  like  a 
foreman  or  a  boss  in  the  shop,  just 
happened  to  come  into  the  room  as  the 
flower  pot  was  to  be  thrown  into  the 
refuse  barrel. 

Not  saying  anything  to  anybody,  she 
stepped  over  and  rescued  pot  and 
flower  from  their  threatening  fate. 

The  old  lady  and  I  were  sitting  in 
the  kitchen  when  The  Party  came 
home  with  the  thing  wrapped  up  in 
a  paper. 

I  wouldn't  have  given  two  cents  for 
it. 

Every  leaf  and  twig  was  seared  and 
drooping. 

Where  the  flower  had  once  blos 
somed  there  was  nothing  but  a  with 
ered,  vellowish  ball. 


THE   HANGING  GARDEN.  57 

But  she  is  not  much  in  the  habit  of 
asking  other  people's  advice — after  she 
has  her  mind  made  up — and  gently 
hoisting  me  out  of  my  chair  at  the 
window,  she  put  the  plant  on  the  fire- 
escape. 

I  might  as  well  tell  you  that  in  the 
lease  of  my  Party's  mansion  nothing  is 
mentioned  about  the  view. 

And  still,  it  is  riot  entirely  without 
picturesqueness. 

For  instance,  I  know  the  exact  num 
ber  of  shirts  which  make  Mr.  Clancy's 
bosom — on  the  floor  below — look 
brighter  far  than  the  rainbow  and 
speak  louder  than  Gabriel's  trumpet. 

And  that  is  not  the  only  family 
secret  which  is  aired  on  the  line. 

On  days  when  the  lines  are  bare,  it 
is  not  so  interesting.  Then  the  lines 
seem  like  some  weird  system  of  tele 
graph  wires,  running  from  window  to 

'ndow,  from  house  to  house.     Here 


58  THE    PARTY    SKETCHES. 

one  carries  a  bit  of  spare  joy  to  a  home 
where  sorrow  is  brooding;  there  an 
other  brings  warning  to  a  camp  of  the 
flowing  can. 

Were  I  a  poet  I  could  find  a  song 
there — The  Song  of  the  Tenement 
Lines. 

But  as  it  was  I  was  kind  of  sore  on 
The  Party  for  spoiling  the  vista  with 
that  measly  little  plant. 

I  began  to  hate  it  and  refrained 
from  looking  at  it. 

It  was  long  after,  when  I  stuck  my 
head  out  of  the  wrindow  to  listen  to 
my  favorite  song,  which  a  wandering 
minstrel  was  singing  in  the  yard,  and 
collided  with  that  confounded  flower 
pot,  and — 

Every  leaf  was  green  and  fresh. 

Instead  of  one  withered  blossom 
there  were  flowers  in  full  bloom,  and 
even  the  stem  of  the  plant  seemed  erect 
and  proud  of  its  purpose. 


THE   HANGING  GARDEN.  59 

I  didn't  say  a  word,  just  watched, 
and  ere  long  The  Party  went  to  her 
hanging  garden. 

I  have  seen  pictures  of  flower  girls, 
but  none  of  them  was  more  dainty, 
more  tender  than  my  dear  little  Party 
in  caring  for  her  little  flower. 

Neither  she  nor  I  could  tell  a  pine 
tree  from  a  rose  bush.  We  do  not 
know  the  name  of  our  flower.  We're 
from  and  of  the  city — the  east  side, 
at  that;  but  whatever  its  name  it  had 
its  mission. 

It  has  taught  me  much  about  my 
Party. 

It  has  given  me  a  straight  peep  into 
her  heart  of  hearts,  and  it  prophesies 
that  if  she  can  change  the  withered, 
warped  flower  into  new  and  glorious 
blossoming  by  her  care  and  foresight, 
she  will  surely  change  me,  a  tough  old 
weed,  into  at  least  something  as  useful 
as  cabbage. 


6O  THE    PARTY    SKETCHES. 

Now  the  whole  fire  escape  is  full  of 
flowers. 

I  don't  know  what  they  are,  but  I 
got  them  just  the  same,  and  The  Party 
is  happy. 

II. 

THE  SIMILE  OF  THE  ROSES. 

Listen ! 

Perhaps  you  will  remember  how 
some  time  ago  The  Party  started  a 
hanging  garden  on  the  fire  escape. 

Well,  by  now,  from  that  one  little 
flower  a  whole  lot  of  flowers  have  de 
veloped  into  a  miniature  garden,  tak 
ing  up  every  inch  of  the  iron  balcony, 
and  it  keeps  The  Party  busy  taking 
care  of  them. 

The  other  night  she  asked  me  to 
come  to  the  house  for  supper,  and 
v/hile  I  was  sitting  at  the  window, 


THE   SMILE   OF    THE   ROSES.         6l 

waiting  for  the  meal  to  be  ready,  I  no 
ticed  that  the  flowers  after  the  stifling 
hot  day  were  almost  begging  for  water. 

I  filled  the  sprinkling  can,  but  before 
I  began  to  water  them  I  set  to  work  to 
separate  a  few  that  seemed  all  tangled 
up. 

Especially,  two  roses  were  all  stuck 
together,  and  it  seemed  as  if  one,  a 
pale  pink,  was  actually  nestling  under 
the  foliage  of  the  other,  a  sturdy  pur 
ple.  I  parted  them  with  care  and  then 
let  fall  the  life-giving  spray. 

Well,  now,  you  know  there  is  very 
little  imagination  about  me  and  that  I 
am  very  much  matter  of  fact,  but,  I 
don't  know,  those  poor,  sun-parched 
flowers  acted  all  the  world  like  a  lot 
of  unfortunate  human  beings,  to  whom 
at  the  least  expected  moment  a  bless 
ing  from  heaven  is  sent. 

Not  only  was  the  difference  noticea 
ble  in  the  fresher  and  healthier  color 


62  THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

of  their  blossoms  and  leaves,  but,  be 
ing  so  close  together,  the  fall  of  the 
drops  of  water  was  accompanied  by  a 
rustle  among  them,  which,  if  one  list 
ened  carefully,  sounded  like  a  softly 
murmuring  anthem  of  thanksgiving 
and  which  left  them  erect,  and  not 
drooping  as  before. 

My  task  performed,  I  was  escorted 
by  The  Party  to  participate  of  her  lat 
est  culinary  endeavor ! 

Supper  over,  The  Party  and  I 
stepped  over  to  the  window  to  look  at 
the  flowers,  to  get  a  breath  of  air  and 
to  look  up  to  the  starry  sky. 

A  part  of  my  work  seemed  to  have 
been  undone. 

The  two  roses,  so  carefully  parted 
by  me,  were,  if  anything,  more  closely 
entwined  than  before. 

My  hands  went  out  to  repeat  the 
former  operation,  to  separate  them, 
when  The  Party  stopped  me  and  said : 


THE  SMILE  OF   THE   ROSES.         63 

"Look,  don't  you  think  they're  very 
much  like  us  ?  Let  them  alone,  please." 

I  looked,  and  it's  a  fact,  there  was  a 
resemblance. 

The  smaller,  the  pink,  one  or  two 
crystal  drops  still  hanging  on  her  pet 
als,  seeming  like  tears,  perhaps  of  joy 
or  sorrow,  was  again  enshrouded  by 
the  leaves  of  the  other,  the  purple  one, 
who,  now  in  the  reborn  majesty  of  his 
strength  and  beauty,  appeared  to  do 
both,  protect  and  love. 

But  while  the  pink  had  before  been 
abject  and  despondent,  now  her  pale 
flower  was  framed  in  the  foliage  of  the 
other,  and  looked  up  to  him,  and  past 
him,  right  into  heaven. 

"A  courtship  of  the  flowers,"  I  whis 
pered  to  The  Party,  who  had  stood 
silently. 

"Yes,  and  there  are  lots  of  things 
human  beings  can  learn  from  them 
that  ain't  human." 


64  THE  PARTY   SKETCHES. 

I  knew  there  was  an  answer  to  this, 
and  ere  long  I  found  it. 

III. 

THE  AWE  OF  NATURE. 

Listen ! 

A  most  well-intentioned  man,  after 
reading  about  The  Party's  hanging 
garden  on  the  fire  escape,  sent  me  an 
invitation — for  two — to  come  to  his 
place  in  the  country  that  we  might  get 
better  acquainted  with  flowers  and 
things  that  grow. 

Well,  it's  the  good  old  summer  time. 
The  Party  has  long  been  a  little  white 
slave  without  a  real  holiday.  I,  too, 
was  also  a  little  played  out  from  my 
literary  labors — stop  your  laughing ! — 
and  we  thought  a  vacation  would  be 
all  right,  all  right. 

"Let  us  fly  to  the  country,"  I  cried. 


THE  AWE  OF   NATURE.  65 

"No;  better  let  us  take  a  trolley," 
suggested  the  practical  Party. 

So  far,  Coney  Island  and  Fort 
George  had  been  about  our  limit,  and 
The  Party  got  as  excited  as  if  we  were 
going  to  Europe. 

It  was  a  swell  place  all  right,  and  we 
were  received  like  two  members  of  the 
"400,"  but  there  wasn't  much  country 
about  it — all  lawns,  benches  and  stat 
ues,  and  it  looked  almost  like  City  Hall 
Park, 

I  said  so,  and  they  told  us  that  a  very 
short  walk  would  bring  us  into  fields 
and  woods  where  we  could  meander 
to  our  hearts'  content. 

We  had  only  walked  a  little  way 
when  we  met  a  farmer  who  smiled, 
nodded  and  gave  us  a  cheery  "Good 
evening,  folks." 

"Do  you  know  the  jay?"  asked  The 
Party  with  suspicion,  and  put  me  in 
an  embarrassing  position. 


66  THE   PARTY    SKETCHES. 

You  know,  before  The  Party  dis 
covered  that  there  was  still  a  little  good 
left  in  me  I  had  never  objected  to  meet 
ing  hayseeds  who  were  on  the  Bowery 
for  a  good  time ;  yet,  I  hardly  think  I 
ever  met  this  fellow  before,  or  he 
wouldn't  have  been  so  pleased  to  see 
us. 

A  little  further  on  we  met  another 
one  and  he  also  salutes  us  with  "Good 
evening,"  and  then  we  tumbled  that 
that  was  a  way  of  the  country,  and  we 
thought  it  a  nice  custom,  and  The 
Party  intended  to  try  it  in  New  York, 
which  made  me  think  she  will  have  all 
kinds  of  experiences. 

But  meandering  tires  and  when  we 
came  to  something  which,  according 
to  our  opinion,  was  a  dell,  we  plunged 
right  down  into  the  grass  on  the  hill 
side  and  got  ready  to  enjoy  our  first 
evening  in  the  country. 


THE   AWE   OF   NATURE.  67 

I  wish  I  were  one  of  those  fellows 
who  can  draw  pictures  in  words  to  tell 
you  of  the  beauty  of  the  scene  be 
fore  us. 

From  where  we  sat,  way  into  the 
distance,  was  a  level  ground  of  fields 
and  grass  running  to  a  range  of  hills, 
which  shut  off  the  view  like  the  back 
drop  on  the  stage,  and  which,  at  the 
moment,  were  topped  by  a  halo  of 
gold  from  the  rays  of  the  homing  sun. 

Not  a  sound,  not  a  living  being,  if 
you  will  except  an  occasional  bird 
swinging  gracefully  through  the 
balmy  air  homeward  bound  to  his  rest. 

We  sat  for  hours,  never  saying  a 
word — just  looking  a  hole  into  the 
coming  night — until  I  put  my  hand  on 
hers  and  whispered :  "Girl  o'  mine." 

She  snuggled  closer,  I  put  my  arm  in 
its  proper  place,  and  we  forgot  all 
about  supper. 


68  THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

Just  then,  like  the  serpent  in  Para 
dise,  a  train  looking  like  a  string  of 
toy  cars  whisked  snorting  and  puffing 
along  the  hills  and  shot  right  into  them, 
leaving  streamers  of  white  smoke  be 
hind. 

It  broke  the  spell,  and  we,  aroused, 
found  the  stillness,  now  accentuated 
by  many  unknown  noises  and  chirrups, 
oppressive. 

"Ain't  it  quiet?  Let's  make  a  break," 
said  The  Party,  and  I,  reading  her 
mind,  most  willing  assented. 

Misty  vapors  were  now  ascending 
from  the  fields,  and  we  more  stumbled 
than  walked  in  the  dim,  hazy  light  of 
moon  and  stars  along  the  ghostly, 
haunted  road,  hearing  the  breaking  of 
a  twig  or  the  flutter  of  a  bird  with  fast- 
beating  hearts. 

I  don't  know  how  It  happened,  but 
we  found  ourselves  at  a  little  station, 


THE  AWE  OF   NATURE.  69 

heard  that  a  train  would  soon  be  along 
and,  at  last,  were  rolling  home. 

The  Party  was  not  herself  until  we 
landed  in  West  street.  Then,  sniffing 
the  air,  she  said  with  conviction : 

"There's  nothing  like  this  little  vil 
lage  after  all.  If  I  was  to  be  out  there 
I'd  go  crazy  from  the  quiet.  I  guess 
even  the  milkmen  are  too  scared  to 
holler  out  there." 

And  then  we  had  two  plates  of  "beef 
and,"  and  I  took  The  Party  home. 

TO  C.  S.  B—  Many  thanks  for  kind 
invitation,  which  was  highly  appreci 
ated,  but — let  the  above  be  the  expla 
nation  for  our  French  leave-taking. 

IV. 

INTO  THE  DUST. 

Listen ! 

There  were  two  things  about  what  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  which  made  it 


7O  THE   PARTY    SKETCHES. 

hard  for  me,  and  I  wouldn't  have  done 
it  for  anybody  else  excepting  The 
Party. 

In  the  first  place,  you  know  how  a 
fellow  hates  to  get  sent  on  an  errand  or 
to  carry  bundles,  and  especially  when 
it  is  flowers  and  for  a  funeral. 

In  the  second  place,  you  can  say 
what  you  like,  but — at  least  in  our 
neighborhood — there  is  strong  feeling 
between  the  different  nationalities,  and 
it's  only  around  election  time  when 
we're  "all  fellow-citizens"  and  make 
believe  we  love  each  other  like 
brothers;  and  this  case  where  The 
Party  sent  me  to  was  a  dago  funeral, 
and  a  kid  at  that. 

I  don't  know  how  she  got  acquainted 
with  the  woman,  but,  anyway,  on  the 
way  to  the  shop  she  bought  a  wreath, 
jollied  me  into  buying  a  bunch,  too, 
and  then  I  had  to  promise  to  carry  it 
over  to  Bacigalupi's  myself.  . 


INTO   THE   DUST.  7! 

You  know  they  die  pretty  often 
down  our  way,  and  Bacigalupi's  little 
mortuary  chapel,  back  of  the  office,  is 
never  empty.  The  minute  one  silent 
guest  departs  another  is  ready  for  the 
place  of  honor.  So  I  meant  to  just 
leave  the  flowers  and  get  away  as 
quick  as  I  could  from  the  mournful 
crowd  of  different  groups. 

But  Bacigalupi  is  about  as  decent  an 
Italian  as  one  could  wish  to  meet,  and 
when  he  asked  me  to  step  over  and 
look  at  the  kid  laid  out  I  did  not  wish 
to  refuse. 

Well,  it  was  a  yellowish  little  thing, 
fearfully  ugly  even  in  its  last  festal 
robe.  Still  it  was  the  child  beloved  by 
its  parents,  and  Bacigalupi  told  me  the 
story. 

A  young  Italian  had  courted  a  girl 
who  was  as  poor  as  himself.  Their 
courtship  had  been  so  absorbing  that 


72  THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

they  had  forgotten  all  about  the  prac 
tical  things. 

There  was  a  streak  of  the  poet  in 
the  fellow  and  a  longing  for  romance 
in  the  girl,  and  they  had  sat  in  Mul 
berry  Bend  Park  and  had  babbled 
about  the  poets  of  their  land,  about 
the  emptiness  behind  them,  the  happi 
ness  before  them. 

Well,  after  they  got  hitched  things 
went  bad  from  the  start.  There  was 
sickness,  loss  of  work  and  general  mis 
ery,  until  even  the  guitar  had  to  be 
sold. 

Next  came  the  baby.  Its  coming 
made  both  the  parents  forget  their  lot 
for  the  time  being. 

He  braced  up  once  more,  and  even 
the  young  mother — about  nineteen — 
began  to  look  as  of  old. 

The  baby  lasted  just  three  months. 
Then  they  had  to  come  to  Bacigalupi, 
whose  motto  is :  "Not  one  of  my  coun- 


INTO   THE  DUST.  73 

trymen  will  go  to  the  Nameless  Acre  if 
I  know  of  it." 

That  was  the  story,  and  just  as  it 
was  finished  in  came  the  two  parents. 

I  heard  afterward  he  had  been  a  sol 
dier  in  the  Italian  army.  He  walked 
as  straight  as  a  die,  making  a  fearful 
bluff  at  being  composed,  while  she, 
with  muffled  face,  was  hanging  at  his 
arm. 

Well,  they  left  them  alone  in  the 
chapel  until  one  of  the  assistants  came 
to  the  boss  and  said  :  "Here  comes  the 
next,"  and  then  went  inside  to  do  the 
last  of  his  work. 

He  came  out  shortly  with  the  little 
white  box  in  his  arms,  the  mother  al 
most  hiding  it  with  her  embrace,  the 
husband  coolly  walking  by  her  side 
and  counselling  her  to  quiet  herself. 

I  was  watching  him,  because  he  had 
me  guessing,  and  I  began  to  think  he 


74  THE   PARTY    SKETCHES. 

didn't  care  anything  for  the  kid;  but 
just  then  the  assistant  got  to  the  door, 
and  there  was  a  sudden  transforma 
tion. 

With  a  sound,  a  cross  between  a 
moan  and  a  scream,  he  sprang  forward 
and  snatched  the  box  to  his  breast. 
Down  on  the  floor  he  went,  and  though 
I  could  not  understand  it  I  knew  what 
he  was  saying  while  he  was  laying  his 
face  against  that  little  white  affair. 

It's  funny  how  we  were  all  looking 
into  corners  and  everywhere  excepting 
at  the  father,  until  he  sprang  up  and 
came  to  shake  hands  with  us. 

Well,  when  I  met  The  Party  to  re 
port,  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that,  dago  or  no  dago,  a  father  is  a 
father,  and  no  matter  how  homely  the 
baby,  it  is  his,  and  therefore  the  most 
beautiful. 

I  got  the  Senator  to  get  him  a  job. 


A   S.    P.    C.    A.  VOLUNTEER.          75 

V. 

A   S.  P.  C.  A.  VOLUNTEER. 

Listen ! 

There  are  many  things  which  a 
man  cannot  do  without  getting  him 
self  into  a  barrel  of  trouble  and  which 
a  girl  can  do  with  all  the  ease  of  the 
world. 

The  home  of  my  little  woman  and 
her  old  lady  is  as  near  to  the  skies  as 
you  can  get  in  a  tenement  house. 

And  there  is  no  elevator,  which  is 
fine  exercise  for  those  that  need  it. 

It  is  only  a  few  steps  up  to  the  roof, 
and  it  is  almost  as  good  as  being  up  to 
Newport  to  sit  up  there  at  night  and 
catch  the  breeze. 

I  fixed  up  a  hammock  according  to 
a  pattern  I  saw  in  a  magazine,  from 
an  old  blanket,  and  The  Party  and  I 
make  ourselves  believe  we  are  a 


76  THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

spoony  couple  at  some  fashionable 
country  place,  who  talk  that  funny  talk 
you  see  in  the  illustrated  papers. 

But  it  is  apparently  very  hard  to 
find  anything  in  life  which  you  can 
enjoy  without  having  something  bitter 
creep  into  it. 

On  a  roof  not  far  from  ours — or 
hers,  rather — a  man  appeared  the 
other  day  with  a  lot  of  boxes  and  bas 
kets  and  began  to  erect  little  shanties. 

Naturally,  we  watched  him,  and  had 
not  long  to  wait  for  a  solution  to  our 
puzzle. 

He's  a  bird-fancier,  and  we  watched 
with  delight  the  graceful  flights  of 
several  flocks  of  pigeons,  released 
from  their  boxes. 

The  Party  was  simply  charmed  with 
the  birds,  and  it  was  good  to  see  her 
enjoy  their  airy  gambols. 

The  man  would  send  them  into  the 
air  and  then,  by  whistling  and  waving 


A   S.    P.    C.   A.  VOLUNTEER.          77 

a  long  stick  with  a  rag  on  its  end, 
would  keep  them  circling  about  in 
ever-increasing  curves. 

The  other  day,  while  watching  them, 
a  few  of  the  birds  strayed  over  to  our 
roof,  and  The  Party  was  lucky  enough 
to  catch  one  of  them. 

Talk  about  petting  and  caressing! 
Why,  that  bird  did  not  care  to  leave 
at  all,  and  I  can't  blame  him  a  bit. 

The  man,  thinking  we  wanted  to 
freeze  on  to  his  pigeon,  hollered  over, 
but  I  told  him  in  my  quiet  and  con 
vincing  way  that  we  would  return  the 
bird  when  good  and  ready  to  do  so. 

I  had  to  choose  between  his  and  The 
Party's  desire,  and  that  is  dead  easy. 

The  Party,  in  the  meantime,  began 
talking  about  the  pigeons  to  the  neigh 
bors,  and  in  that  way  found  out  the 
real  object  of  the  pigeon  industry. 

"That  scoundrel  is  training  those  in 
nocent  little  birds  to  be  killed — to  be 


78  THE  PARTY   SKETCHES. 

shot  by  a  lot  of  fellows  who  think  it 
great  fun  to  be  blazing  away  at  poor 
pigeons  that  have  never  done  them  any 
harm  and  that  they  won't  even  eat,  but 
just  kill  for  the  pleasure  of  killing. 
You  got  to  stop  that,  do  you  hear  ?" 

"Oh,  now,  how  can  I  stop  that?" 

"How  can  you  stop  that?  And  I 
thought  you  was  writing  for  the  pa 
pers!  Well,  if  I  was  writing  for  the 
papers  and  had  my  name  in  them,  I'd 
stop  it  quick  enough !  And  I'm  going 
to  do  it  anyway !  I  can't  think  of  how 
that  little  thing  looked  at  me  with  its 
soft,  brown  eyes  the  other  day  without 
wishing  to  send  that  fellow  to  jail." 

Well,  there  was  some  correspond 
ence,  and  a  stranger,  sort  of  official. 
looking,  called  at  the  house,  and  now 
there  are  no  more  pigeons  being  edu 
cated  for  death  in  our  neighborhood. 

The  Party  is  wearing  a  badge  and 
calls  herself  an  officer,  and  every  tramp 


AN   S.   P.   C.   A.   VOLUNTEER.        79 

dog  and  cat  in  the  district  is  taking  up 
a  great  deal  of  her  attention. 

"Those  that  have  no  friends  need 
them  more  than  those  that  have,"  she 
says. 

This,  no  doubt,  is  not  the  most  lucid 
maxim,  but,  you  know,  I  am  not  look 
ing  for  philosophy  in  my  Party  and 
am  perfectly  satisfied  with  her  senti 
ment,  which  is  straight,  wholesome 
and  always  to  the  point. 

VI. 

A  SOIREE  MUSICALE. 

Listen ! 

It  is  fierce  when  a  big,  husky  fellow 
like  me  puts  himself  in  danger  of  los 
ing  a  well-earned  reputation. 

I  have  never  been  a  saint,  and  The 
Party  says  there's  quite  a  difference 
yet  between  me  and  an  angel  in  spite 
of  all  her  trying  to  make  me  one,  still 


8o~          THE  PARTY   SKETCHES. 

I  have  never  believed  much  in  lying 
and  am  considered  a  pretty  square  fel 
low. 

But  lately  I  have  lied  enough  to  give 
Ananias  cards  and  spades  and  beat 
him. 

The  other  night  The  Party  and  I 
went  to  a  soiree  musicale  in  Cherry 
street,  at  Mrs.  McBride's,  three  flights 
up,  in  the  rear. 

The  "musicale"  was  justified  by 
them  having  captured  Jack  McCord, 
the  champion  accordion  player,  for  the 
occasion. 

Now,  as  passionately  fond  of  music 
as  I  am,  I  have  never  been  able  to  dis 
cover  any  music  in  those  wind- jam 
ming  things  and  have  fairly  dreaded 
the  sight  of  one. 

But  my  prejudices  were  dispelled, 
for  McCord  certainly  could  play  the 
instrument. 


A   SOIREE   MUSICALE.  8l 

Ah!  and  when  the  quavers  and 
drones  began  to  chant  the  song  that 
will  never  die  as  long  as  there's  a 
shamrock  green — "The  Lakes  of  Kil- 
larney" — there  was  many  a  pipe  taken 
out  of  mouths  now  used  for  more  me 
lodious  purposes,  many  an  eye 
crowned  by  a  gray-haired  head  found 
shamefaced  refuge  in  the  corner  of 
the  shawl,  and  even  we  younger  folk 
felt  that  drop  of  blood  which  gives  us 
the  claim  run  faster  through  our  veins 
and  sing:  "You,  too;  you,  too." 

The  melody  grew  to  be  enchanting. 
I  grunted  with  the  rest  until  my  gaze 
fell  on  The  Party. 

She  was  absolutely  fascinated, 
watching  every  move  of  the  player, 
while  the  tears  were  dewing  her 
cheeks. 

Somehow,  neither  one  of  us  spoke 
much  when  I  took  her  home. 


82  THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

The  following  night  I  went  up  to 
The  Party's  house  and  was  startled  by 
the  peculiar  noises  I  heard  before  I 
reached  the  door. 

The  Party  was  pumping  away  at  an 
accordion. 

She  was  kind  of  ashamed  at  being 
caught  in  the  act  and  feared  I  would 
chide  her  for  her  extravagance  in  pur 
chasing  that  thing,  but  at  that  time 
nothing  was  further  from  my  mind, 
because  I  saw  she  was  happy. 

Well,  all  that  happened  some  time 
ago,  and  I  am  praying  every  day  now 
that  something  might  befall  that  wind- 
box. 

Every  time  I  see  it  in  its  place  of 
honor  on  the  mantelpiece,  a  whole 
army  of  wicked  thoughts  marches  into 
my  heart. 

Of  course,  I  didn't  expect  her  to 
master  the  instrument  in  a  day — I  was 
then  and  am  now  patiently  waiting  for 


A   SOIREE   MUSICALE.  83 

the  time  when  that  shall  come  to  pass 
— but  I  wish  she  wouldn't  be  so  anx 
ious  to  show  me  her  progress  in  the 
art  of  music  or  to  ask  me  those  em 
barrassing  questions. 

Last  night  we  had  another  seance 
with  that  thing. 

"What  was  that  I  played?"  she 
asked  me  after  squeezing  a  few  yards 
of  horror  out  of  it. 

"Oh,  that  was  an  imitation  of  a  man 
falling  downstairs."  I  answered  truth 
fully,  but  not  very  diplomatically,  and 
then  I  had  to  lie  for  about  ten  uninter 
rupted  minutes  before  I  succeeded  in 
chasing  the  frown  from  the  dearest 
little  face. 

Then  the  musical  civil-service  ex 
amination  began  once  more  and  I,  not 
wishing  to  be  found  wanting  again, 
was  trying  vainly  to  ascertain  whether 
it  was  a  gallop,  a  ballad  or  two-step 
that  was  supposed  to  be  happening, 


84  THE    TARTY    SKETCHES. 

when  I  was  saved  the  answer  by  tre 
mendous  pounding  on  the  walls  and 
floor  above  us. 

"Oh,  they  like  that  and  want  you 
to  play  that  over  again  to  give  them 
an  encore,"  said  I,  seeing  her  question 
ing  glance.  And  now  I  really  believe 
I  couldn't  tell  the  truth  if  I  wanted  to. 

I  am  haunted  by  fearful  fears. 

Supposing  she  should  become  fas 
cinated  by  a  trombone  or  bass  fiddle, 
what  then? 

Still,  they  say  he  or  she  who  loves 
music  has  much  good  in  heart  and 
soul,  and  I  know  my  little  Party  loves 
music,  even  if  she  doesn't  make  it. 

VII. 

THE   MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

Listen ! 

I  kissed  a  girl  the  other  day,  and 
right  before  The  Party  without  get 
ting  her  jealous. 


THE   MOTHER-IN-LAW.  8$ 

It  was  last  Sunday,  and  right  after 
dinner. 

The  Party  never  lets  the  old  lady 
do  any  housework  or  cooking  on  Sun 
days,  but  does  it  herself. 

"No,"  she  says  to  the  old  lady, 
"goodness  knows  you're  working  hard 
enough  through  the  week  to  be  having 
a  little  rest  on  Sundays,  and  I  guess  I 
can  cook  enough  for  us  and  the  likes 
of  him." 

The  last  part  of  the  sentence  hap 
pens  to  refer  to  me. 

When  I  first  began  to  go  up  to  the 
house  for  Sundays  I  used  to  get  an 
apron  tied  around  me,  and  had  to  help 
setting  the  table,  until  one  day,  when 
I  had  a  whole  lot  of  crockery  in  my 
arms,  I — oh,  but  that's  a  song  with  a 
different  refrain. 

Now  I  am  told  most  impressively  to 
make  myself  as  small  as  possible  in 
some  corner  until  the  dinner  is  ready. 


86  THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

Well,  last  Sunday,  after  dinner,  the 
old  lady  went  over  to  the  window,  and 
I  tried  to  squeeze  myself  into  the 
smallest  compass,  as  always. 

I  sat  there  watching  The  Party 
bustling  with  the  dishes,  and  I  like 
it,  because  she  is  fine  to  look  at  when 
she  is  busy  in  her  deliberate  way.  Be 
sides,  it  gets  me  thinking  of  the  day 
soon  to  come  when  I  shall  have  to  pay 
the  rent  and  butcher  bills  as  my  privi 
lege  for  the  charming  spectacle. 

When  she  got  pretty  near  through 
I  was  going  to  say  something,  but  The 
Party  put  a  finger  to  her  mouth  and 
pointed  at  the  window. 

There  was  mammy  sound  asleep. 

I  looked  and — I  don't  know — I  fell 
in  love  with  my  future  mother-in-law. 

Folded  in  her  lap  were  her  honest, 
brown,  knotted  hands;  the  arms,  like 
two  avenues  of  righteousness,  led  up 
to  the  silvery  head. 


THE   MOTHER-IN-LAW.  87 

Under  the  white  hair,  with  its  sim 
ple  parting,  shone  the  rosy,  saintly 
face,  now  brightened  by  the  ray  of  a 
smile. 

Oh,  yes,  there  were  wrinkles,  plenty 
of  them,  but  I  liked  to  have  them 
there,  because  each  one  had  its  own 
story,  its  own  sweet  song  of  a  life  full 
of  devotion,  toil  and  contentment,  and 
each  tiny  wrinkle  seemed  a  telescope 
by  which  I  could  read  that  dear  old 
heart,  which  has  never  harbored 
malice,  but  always  love  and  self-sacri 
fice. 

Well — you  know,  one  can  never  ex 
plain  how  these  things  happen — but, 
all  of  a  sudden,  I  just  went  over  and 
gave  mammy  a  smack  which  you  could 
hear  in  trie  next  room. 

The  Party  can  tell  the  sound  of  kiss 
ing,  and  she  rushed  back  with  a  frying 
pan  in  her  hand. 

"Mammy,  did  you  see  what  he  done 
to  you  while  you  were  asleep?"  she 


55  THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

said,  not  knowing  whether  to  laugh  or 
to  be  angry. 

"Sure,  I  wasn't  asleep  at  all,  at  all," 
stoutly  replied  mammy. 

"Of  course  she  wasn't,"  I  chimed 
in;  "she  was  only  pretending  so  as  to 
have  my  manly  lips — " 

It's  a  good  thing  The  Party  can 
never  hit  anything  she  aims  at. 

Well,  that's  about  all  there  is  to  it, 
only  this  much  more  I  want  to  say: 
I  can't  understand  why  all  this  fuss 
is  being  made  about  mothers-in-law. 

I  know  one  thing,  and  that  is  that 
my  mother-in-law  will  live  with  us 
when  I  marry  The  Party  or  else  The 
Party  stands  good  chances  of  being  an 
old  maid. 

You  know,  when  a  fellow  has  no 
peg  in  his  memory  on  which  to  hang 
recollections  of  his  own  mother,  and 
only  knows  of  her  through  the  neigh 
bors  who  had  lived  near  her  and  who 


THE    MOTHER-IN-LAW.  89 

had  been  at  her  bedside  when  she  gave 
up  her  life  in  giving  life  to  her  son,  he 
thinks  differently  about  the  mothers  of 
others — often  even  with  bitter  jealousy 
or  deep,  silent  longing. 

And  that  is  why  I  thank  God  for 
having  given  me  a  second  mother  in 
dear  old  mammy. 

Besides,  hasn't  she  brought  up  The 
Party  and  made  a  fine,  pure,  whole 
some  girl  of  her?  And  would  it  be 
right  for  me  or  any  other  man  now, 
in  the  evening  of  her  life,  to  come  to 
her  and  say:  "Well,  I  am  going  to 
take  your  girl  away  from  you,  with 
thanks  for  having  her  so  well  prepared 
to  be  my  wife,"  and  then  leave  the  old 
lady  all  alone,  all  alone  in  heart-tear 
ing  solitude? 

I  don't  think  so,  and  I  am  sure,  if 
I  can  earn  enough  for  The  Party  and 
myself  I  can  earn  enough  for  the  three 
of  us,  which  is  no  more  than  right  and 
my  duty. 


9O  THE  PARTY  SKETCHES. 

VIII. 

VARIATIONS  ON  THE  DESCENTOF  MAN. 

Listen ! 

Ever  since  I  became  a  prominent 
journalist  it  has  been  my  endeavor  to 
elevate  The  Party's  literary  taste. 

Not  that  I  am  dissatisfied  with  her 
present  education,  for,  indeed,  I  want 
her  just  as  she  is;  but  I  am  looking 
ahead  to  the  time  when  she  will  pre 
side  over  a  little  household  and  will  be 
obliged  to  be  hostess  to  my  many  jour 
nalistic  friends.  And  then  I  wouldn't 
like  to  have  her  be  behind  in  the  sub 
jects  those  people  like  to  talk  about, 
for  her  own  sake. 

So  I  took  the  "Descent  of  Man,"  by 
Darwin,  from  my  library  (ahem)  and 
asked  her  to  read  it. 


VARIATIONS  ON  DESCENT  OF  MAN.    9 1 

A  few  days  after  I  asked  her  how 
she  liked  it. 

"Fine,"  she  said  then,  but  a  week 
later  it  was  only:  "Oh,  so,  so,"  and 
soon  after  that  I  unearthed  a  fearful 
fraud. 

Supper  over,  we  sat  down  to  do  a 
little  reading;  I  took  the  paper,  and 
The  Party  took  old  Darwin  over  to 
the  window. 

I  knew  it  was  Darwin,  because  I 
could  tell  by  the  paper  covering  over 
the  fancy  binding. 

The  old  lady  called  her.  She  left 
the  book  on  the  window  sill.  I  hap 
pened  to  pick  it  up,  and  read  on  the 
very  top  of  the  page:  "Unhand  me, 
you  cowardly  villain!"  It  was  that 
thrilling  novel,  "Unfettered  Fetters,  or 
Lady  Marjorie's  Secret." 

Well,  I  glanced  over  it,  and  must 
say  I  was  struck  by  the  originality  of 
it.  Lady  Marjorie,  especially,  was  a 


92  THE  PARTY   SKETCHES. 

remarkable  creature.  In  one  place  it 
was,  "her  hair  almost  touched  the 
ground" ;  a  few  pages  later,  "her  hair 
stood  on  edge,"  which  must  have  pro 
duced  a  striking  effect. 

When  The  Party  came  back  I  deter 
mined  to  tease  her  a  bit,  but,  I  don't 
know,  she  can  read  me  like  a  book,  and 
knew  that  I  had  discovered  her  and 
Lady  Marjorie's  secret. 

"I  think  books  like  this  are  much 
nicer  than  to  be  reading  about  a  lot 
of  monkeys.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  And, 
just  read  this  and  tell  me  what  you 
think  about  it." 

The  particular  place  was  heavily 
marked  by  pencil  and  ran  as  follows: 

"He  spoke  with  intensest  feeling, 
never  taking  his  eyes  off  the  beautiful 
face  before  him.  Both  of  her  hands 
were  clasped  in  his,  and,  swaying  as 
some  glorious  lily,  Marjorie  at  last 


VARIATIONS  ON  DESCENT  OF  MAN.    93 

yielded  to  his  embrace  with  tenderest 
grace." 

"Ain't  that  nicer  than  monkeys?" 

"Yes,  but  it  is  too  much  exagger 
ated,  for  people  don't  gush  like  that 
in  real  life." 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  asked, 
kind  of  suspicious  like.  "And  if  they 
don't  they  ought  to.  It  is  better  than 
using  bad  poetry." 

That  was  meant  for  me  and  I  took 
the  hint. 

So  I  cleared  my  throat,  and  taking 
the  appropriate  position,  I  "clasped 
both  of  her  hands  in  mine,"  "never 
took  my  eyes  off  the  beautiful  face  be 
fore  me"  and  "spoke  with  the  intensest 
feeling"  and  in  the  deepest  basso. 

She?  Well,  she  was  just  as  exact 
about  her  part,  and  after  "swaying  as 
some  glorious  lily"  she  finally  "yielded 
to  my  embrace  with  the  tenderest 
grace,"  and  it  was  very  wise  of  her 


94  THE   PARTY    SKETCHES. 

to  "yield,"  because  she  was  bound  to 
be  embraced,  anyway. 

I  shall  immediately  procure  a  stock 
of  novels  of  the  mentioned  type,  be 
cause  they  contain  more  valuable  in 
formation  than  I  thought  they  did. 

IX. 

ALONG  OUR  U.  S.  RHINE. 

Listen ! 

I  have  been  up  against  all  sorts  of 
games  and  know  that,  whether  of  the 
400  or  the  four  millions,  a  fellow  has 
to  fix  himself  some  way  to  make  a  hit 
at  a  social  function. 

And  that  is  where  I  fell  down ! 

I  got  stuck  for  two  tickets  for  a 
moonlight  up  the  Hudson;  but  The 
Party,  instead  of  getting  mad  at  me 
for  being  so  easy,  thought  it  wouldn't 
be  so  bad  to  take  a  sail  after  a  hot  day, 
provided  I'd  stay  with  her  and  keep 


ALONG  OUR   U.   S.   RHINE.          95 

away  from  the  lower  deck,  where  the 
breezes  come  in  glasses. 

There  are  some  who  say  I  like  noth 
ing  so  well  as  corned  beef  and  cab 
bage,  but  that's  a  mistake. 

Sure,  I  eat  it  and  have  even  eaten 
so  much  of  it  that  I  am  ashamed  to 
meet  a  cow  face  to  face  for  fear  of 
being  reproached;  but  my  long  suit  is 
poetry. 

And  all  you  got  to  do  is  to  look  at 
any  book  of  poems  and  you  will  find 
that  those  long-haired  fellows  can  rave 
about  nothing  as  fine  as  about  moon 
light. 

I  have  said  time  and  time  again  that 
The  Party  is  the  finest  ever,  but  I  had 
never  seen  any  romantic  business 
about  her,  and  was  determined  to  show 
her  the  beauty  of  it  on  this  occasion. 

"Step  gently,  sweet,  and  let  me 
guide  you  to  yon  bower,  where  zephyrs 
of  the  evening  will  play  a  gladsome 


96  THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

frolic  with  your  lovely  tresses.  The 
night—" 

"Oh,  let's  sit  under  that  canvas." 

"That's  the  place  I  meant,  sweet." 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  say  so? 
What's  the  matter  with  you,  any 
how?" 

"Ah,  let's  take  speedy  flight  from 
our  daily  toil  and  travail.  Let  our  souls 
commune  with  each  other,  and  bathed 
in  fair  Luna's  dancing  sheen,  let  us 
soar  on  to  realms " 

"Say,  ain't  you  feeling  well  to 
night?  I  want  to  know  what's  the 
matter  with  you." 

"Oh,  sweet,  the  murmur  of  your 
voice  is  song,  the  anthem  of  our  love. 
Whisper  again " 

"You  better  quit  your  kidding  or 
I'll  shake  you." 

My  poetic  soul,  hurt  to  death,  crept 
back  into  its  shell,  and  I  asked  her  to 
have  a  glass  of  soda. 


ALONG  OUR   U.    S.    RHINE.          97 

"It's  about  time  you  had  sense." 
"Where's  your  soda — sweet?"   she 
asked  me,  when  I  returned,  doing  a 
little  kidding  of  her  own  at  the  same 
time. 

"I  can't  carry  two  glasses,  so  I  had 
mine  below." 

"Well,  I'll    forgive    you  this  time. 
Maybe  them  Looney  zephyrs  made  you 
dry.    Now  sit  down,  and  let's  talk." 
"Yes,  pillow  your  head  upon  my — " 
"Oh,  cut  that  out.    Let's  talk  sense." 
And  now  I  don't  know  if  there  is  no 
poetry  in  The  Party  or  no  sense  in 
poetry. 

Well,  I  had  to  come  down  off  the 
funny  horse  with  the  flopping  wings 
and  we  talked  sense,  which  in  this  case 
was  real  estate. 

The  Party  has  about  a  dozen  claims 
staked  along  the  Hudson — in  her  mind 
— where — some  day — we  intend  to 
have  a  little  shanty  of  our  own. 


98  THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

"We  don't  want  nothing  fancy " 

"No  marble  halls  with  lofty  col 
umns  ?" 

"No,"  and  a  sharp  glance  was  shot 
at  me  from  her  dazzling  orbs ;  "just  a 
little  house.  And  then  we  may  grow 
a  few  potatoes  and  cherries  and  ban 
anas " 

"A  few  cocoanut  plants  would  look 
nice." 

"Well,  we  could  have  them,  too,  and 
we'll  have " 

"Hold  on  a  minute!  To  plant  too 
much  on  such  a  small  plot  would  stifle 
the  growth  of  some  of  the  trees,  and 
there  must  be  plenty  of  room  for  the 
sweetest  plant  of  them  all.  It  bears  no 
fruit,  but  it  is  beauty  and  beautifies 
everything  about  it.  Apples,  bananas, 
cherries,  what  care  I  for  them  as  long 
as  I  have  my  beautiful  Rose." 

Before  she  could  utter  the  usual 
"Oh,  go  on!"  for  which  the  little 


ALONG  OUR   U,    S.    RHINE.          (^ 

mouth  was  shaping  itself,  something 
happened  which  made  it  die  away  to  a 
muffled  gurgle. 

And  then  she  has  the  nerve  to  tell 
me  she  doesn't  care  for  poetry. 

If,  after  we  get  hitched,  you  should 
see  any  pineapples  or  cocoanuts  from 
the  Hudson  in  the  market,  just  think 
of  The  Party,  the  marvellous,  agricul 
tural  conjurer. 


X. 

DOWN  TO  CONEY! 

Listen  I 

The  Party  said  to  me  the  other  day : 
"It's  summer!" 

Now,  I  always  like  to  hear  a  bright 
remark,  and  especially  when  it  comes 
in  such  mellow  tones  from  such  red. 
rosy  lips. 


IOO          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

But  "wiseness"  told  me  to  wait  for 
what  was  coming. 

"You  know,  I  don't  care  for  picnics 
and  such  things.  I'd  sooner  be  with 
you  some  place,  but  there's  lots  o' 
places  where  you  can't  go  in  the  win 
ter." 

I  only  wish  you  could  have  heard 
how  she  said  that. 

You  would  have  done  as  I  did. 

"Well,  what  is  it  going  to  be  ?  Coney 
Island,  Rockaway  or  what?"  I  quer 
ied,  to  which  she  squealed  a  nice  little 
"Oh !"  and  off  we  went. 

"How  much  money  have  you  got?" 
she  asked,  when  on  the  car,  thereby 
confirming  what  I  have  always  said 
about  the  level  head  of  our  Bowery 
girls. 

Of  course,  I  am  not  going  to  state 
my  answer,  for  you  might  be  shocked 
at  my  nerve  for  taking  the  girl  I  love 


DOWN   TO   CONEY.  IOI 

best  to  a  pleasure  resort  on  that  cap 
ital. 

But  I  told  her,  and  sl.'e  determined 
to  act  as  manager  of  the  expedition. 

At  Coney  we  started  the  festivities 
by  getting-  tin-typed.  (Only  two  but 
tons.  So  sorry  I  can't  let  you  have 
one.) 

No  beach  without  a  bath  for  mine, 
and  to  the  bathing  pavilion  next  for  us. 

You  know  how  those  bathing  suits 
disfigure>  but  even  in  that  bag-like 
monstrosity  The  Party  looked  like  a 
nymph  and — aye,  there  was  some  rub 
bering  ! 

Jealous?    Me?    Not  much. 

I  know  she  is  mine.  She  told  me 
so. 

Bowery  girls  do  not  lie,  and  that's 
all  there  is  to  it. 

Envy  was  there,  but  only  on  the  part 
of  the  rubberers. 


102          THE    PARTY    SKETCHES, 

"Beauty  and  the  Beast!" 

"Where  did  she  get  that?" 

These -were -some  of  the  comments, 
but  neither. The  Party  nor  I  had  time 
•  cc  answer,  for  I.  picked  her  up  and 
— into  the  waves. 

"To  the  dance  hall  after  that  ?"  think 
you ;  but  we  didn't. 

Not  that  we  are  above  taking  a 
twist,  but  there's  a  time  for  all  things, 
and  this  was  a  time  for  other  things. 

We  stood  on  the  beach  and  I  began 
to  spout  prose  poetry  about  her  au 
burn  tresses,  midnight-star  eyes,  pink- 
shell  ears,  etc.,  until  she  said : 

"Me  feet's  getting  cold." 

Oh,  how  I  longed  for  certain  other 
things,  but  The  Party  dragged  me  off 
to  ice  cream  candy,  peanuts,  and  soda 
water,  and  I  was  praying  that  no  sar 
castic  friend  might  pass  along  to  see 
me  do  this  still-life  pkUire,  which  no 
artist  could  ever  paint. 


DOWN   TO   CONEY.  1 03 

Me  and  ice  cream  candy! 

At  last  we  hopped  on  a  car  and  The 
Party  delivered  herself  of  the  moral 
of  the  story. 

"Now,  didn't  we  have  a  good  time? 
And  wasn't  that  better  than  going  off 
with  your  push  and  getting  tanked  up  ? 
Besides,  it  didn't  cost  much,  and  I 
guess  you'd  better  let  me  put  the  rest 
o'  that  money  in  the  bank.  You  know, 
the  sooner  we  get  the  money  together 
the  sooner  can  we " 

"Soon  we'll  be  married,"  I  whistled. 

The  Party  blushed,  dug  me  in  the 
ribs  and  said :  "Oh,  go  on !" 

She  squinted  around  to  see  if  any 
body  had  tumbled. 

They  had  not,  so  she  snuggled  a  lit 
tle  closer  and — 

"Here,  wake  up!  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
all  out!" 


IO4          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 
XL 

AN  OBJECT  LESSON. 

Listen ! 

The  other  day  I  was  confronted  by 
this  question :  "Have  I  no  heart,  or 
has  The  Party  too  much  heart?" 

We  were  taking  a  walk  in  the  even 
ing  in  Centre  street,  where  you  can  let 
your  arm  go  to  waist  without  being 
rubbered  at,  when  we  were  disturbed 
by  a  horrible  noise  which  smote  the 
air. 

It  was  a  kid,  barefooted  and  dirty, 
and  crying  to  beat  the  band. 

I  hollered  at  him  :  "Shut  up !"  but 
it  didn't  work  for  a  cent. 

The  Party — she  had  a  new  dress 
and  hat  on — instead  of  staying  with 
me  and  acting  like  a  lady,  didn't  say  a 
word,  but  went  over  to  him  and  knelt 
down  beside  him. 


AN   OBJECT   LESSON.  1 05 

Well,  I  knew  what  was  coming,  or, 
at  least,  thought  I  did. 

"Oh,  you  poor  dear!"  or  "What  is 
the  trouble  with  my  little  man?"  or 
some  other  gushing  stuff  like  that,  a 
pat  on  the  head,  and  then  the  childish 
drama  is  supposed  to  have  been 
changed  into  a  comedy  by  this  per- 
functionary  sympathy. 

I  got  good  reasons  to  know  this. 

Quite  a  few  years  ago  yours  truly 
had  the  distinction  of  being  the  ugli 
est  kid  that  ever  sold  a  paper  on  Park 
Row. 

My  side  partner  was  distinguished 
for  the  other  extreme. 

All  this  blue-eyed  seraphim  had  to 
do  was  to  screw  up  his  mouth  and 
squeeze  a  little  dampness  into  his  eyes 
and  a  whole  cluster  of  women  would 
crowd  around  him  and  stuff  him  with 
candy  and  money. 


IO6          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

Me?  Maybe  I  didn't  try  the  same 
game! 

But  all  I  ever  got  out  of  it  was 
something  like  this:  "My,  what  a 
face!"  or  "Oh,  look  at  that  fearful 
boy!" 

So  you  can  hardly  blame  me  for 
still  being  a  little  jealous  when  I  get 
left  out  in  getting  petted. 

But  The  Party  didn't  mind  me  in 
the  least. 

There  she  was,  not  wasting  any 
breath  in  talking,  but  wiping  and 
scrubbing  his  dirty  phiz  until  her 
handkerchief  was  black  and  his  face  as 
red  as  an  apple. 

He,  in  the  meantime,  had  forgotten, 
all  about  crying,  and  was  contentedly 
gulping  away  his  sobs,  willingly  turn 
ing  his  head  in  whatever  direction  she 
wanted  it. 

At  last  his  mother  showed  up  and 
wouldn't  stop  thanking  The  Party. 


AN   OBJECT   LESSON.  IO/ 

He  was  led  away,  but  his  eyes — at 
the  risk  of  breaking  his  neck — never 
left  The  Party  until  we  turned  the  cor 
ner. 

I  neglected  to  say  that  The  Party 
sent  me  a  thought  wave  before  she  got 
through  with  the  cleaning  job,  and,  the 
first  thing  I  know  my  hand  goes  down 
into  my  pocket  and  I  handed  the  kid 
a  piece  of  money  and — he  thanked  her 
for  it. 

"I  bet  I  could  cry  until  I  get  ar 
rested  for  breaking  the  peace  and  you 
wouldn't  as  much  as  wipe  a  tear  from 
my  dimpled  cheek,"  I  remarked  dis 
gustedly. 

"Now,  don't  you  be  silly,"  was  all 
The  Party  said,  but — I  don't  know — 
we  both  felt  pretty  good  that  night 
and  I  did  a  pile  of  thinking. 

I  thought  that,  if  we  were  lucky 
and  everything  came  out  all  right,  we 


108          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

surely  ought  to  be  able  to  get  married 
this  coming  winter,  and  that  if  she 
could  be  as  good  and  kind  as  that  to 
strange  children  she — but  I  don't  think 
it  is  any  of  your  business  what  I  was 
thinking  about. 


XII. 

ON  THE  ROAD  OF  SWELLDOM. 

Listen ! 

They  who  know  least  about  New 
York  are  the  born  New  Yorkers. 

There  is  no  nook  or  corner  in  our 
neighborhood  which  The  Party  and 
me  don't  know  and  can  find  blind 
folded  ;  but  take  us  a  few  blocks  from 
there  and  we're  like  two  babes  in  the 
woods. 


ON    THE  ROAD  OF   SWELLDOM.    IOO, 

"If  the  Bowery  has  changed  as  it 
has  in  the  last  five  years  there  must 
be  also  changes  in  other  parts  of  the 
city,  and  they  might  be  worth  looking 
at,"  I  thought,  and  put  the  case  before 
The  Party. 

She  agreed  that  there  might  be 
something  in  that,  and  last  Sunday, 
after  taking  carfare  out  of  the  top 
drawer,  we  started  out  to  see  Fifth 
avenue — to  compare  its  present  condi 
tion  with  its  former  one,  just  as  if  we 
could  tell  the  one  from  the  other. 

Instead  of  the  car,  we  went  over  to 
Bleecker  street  and  climbed  up  on  the 
top  of  one  of  those  stages. 

Well,  one  of  these  days  The  Party 
and  me  is  going  to  take  a  ride  in  one 
of  those  automobiles,  but  until  then 
this  ride  would  have  been  the  best  ever 
if  it  had  not  been  spoiled  by  one  of 
those  people  who  can  never  be  satisfied 
until  they  find  a  flaw  in  everything. 


IIO          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

Right  behind  us  sat  two  women  who 
knew  no  more  about  Fifth  avenue  than 
we  did,  and  they  were  escorted  by  a 
very  wise  and  brilliant  young  man. 

What  a  glorious  panorama! 

Coming  up  the  hill  which  winds  up 
at  about  Forty-second  street,  I  looked 
about  me  and  said  to  The  Party: 
"Ain't  it  a  great  and  proud  thing  to 
be  a  New  Yorker  and  to  have  a  share 
in  all  this?" 

To  which  she  answered  a  fervid 
"Yes." 

Just  then  the  brilliant  chap  was 
especially  wise. 

Pointing  here  and  there,  at  houses, 
carriages  and  people,  he  had  a  scrap 
of  scandal  to  tell  about  each  and  every 
one  of  them.  Now  it  was  a  divorce 
he  was  reciting,  then  he  knew  some 
thing  about  the  son  of  the  man  who 
owned  that  palace,  and  so  on. 


ON   THE  ROAD  OF   SWELLDOM.   Ill 

There  was  The  Party  and  me  out 
for  a  little  pleasure,  and  this  trousered 
gossip  trying  to  spoil  it.  Besides,  if 
his  talk  suited  his  lady  friends  it  didn't 
suit  mine,  and  I  arose  to  the  occasion. 

When  he  was  getting  down  from 
the  stage  he  told  the  driver  that  "such 
obnoxious  persons"  should  not  be  per 
mitted  to  ride,  but  he  was  too  small  to 
climb  down  after,  and  besides,  his  lady 
friends  were  laughing  at  him. 

The  Party  promptly  called  me  down 
for  losing  my  temper,  and  then  got  a 
little  closer  and  said :  "Now  we  can  en 
joy  the  sights  without  having  to  listen 
to  the  hidden  sorrows  of  the  people.  I 
guess  we  all  got  troubles,  but  it  is  best 
not  to  stick  your  nose  into  those  of 
other  persons.  Anyway,  you  shouldn't 
be  so  hasty." 

And  then  I  didn't  count  the  call 
down. 


112          THE   PARTY    SKETCHES. 
XIII. 

THE  BEARER  OF  THE  OLIVE  BRANCH. 

Listen ! 

They  say  that  a  man  who  loves  chil 
dren,  music  and  dogs  stands  a  pretty 
good  chance  to  keep  away  from  the 
place  where  a  fellow  could  make  a 
million  a  day  selling  ice-water. 

Well,  without  taking  any  undue 
credit  to  myself,  I  have  always  been 
fond  of  those  three  things,  and  long 
before  The  Party  made  my  life  so 
much  purer  and  brighter  my  best 
friend — yes,  my  good  old  pal — was  my 
dog,  Bill. 

You  know  there  is  a  whole  lot  of 
excitement  in  being  a  Bowery  boy ;  yet 
there  are  times  when  I  used  to  have 
the  blues  the  same  as  everybody  else, 


BEARER  OF  THE  OLIVE  BRANCH.      113 

and  it  was  then  that  I  always  differed 
with  the  sage  who  said  dogs  have  no 
souls. 

There  were  days  when  the  board  for 
myself  and  Bill  had  to  come  off  Barney 
Flynn's  lunch  counter,  but  neither  one 
of  us  flinched.  Sometimes  I  used  to 
feel  ashamed  at  having  nothing  better 
for  Bill  than  his  meagre  fare,  but  he'd 
eat  it,  smack  his  lips  and  wag  his  tail  to 
beat  the  band. 

And  why  ?  Just  to  make  me  feel  as 
if  he  was  enjoying  the  finest  spread 
ever. 

Yes,  we  two  have  often  sat  and 
looked  at  each  other  for  long  stretches 
of  time,  until  Bill  would  come  right 
over  to  me,  put  his  wrinkled  old  phiz 
on  my  knee  and  tell  me  as  plain  as 
words : 

"Kil,  you're  homely;  so  am  I.  We 
two  are  made  for  each  other.  Kil,  I'm 
only  a  dog,  but  I'll  lay  my  life  down 


114          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

for  you  at  any  time,  because  you're  my 
friend." 

Well,  when  The  Party  appeared  on 
the  scene  Bill  didn't  know  what  to 
make  out  of  it.  But  his  head  was  too 
level  to  get  jealous. 

In  fact,  he  is  thriving  since  he  made 
acquaintance  with  The  Party's  old 
lady,  and  can  find  his  way  to  the 
kitchen  blindfolded. 

Well,  a  few  days  ago — since  The 
Party  and  I  had  a  little  misunder 
standing — I  was  sitting  in  my  studio 
(ahem!)  at  literary  work  when  Bill 
poked  the  door  open  and  came  in,  the 
most  dilapidated  rapscallion  you'd  ever 
seen. 

Maybe  he  didn't  feel  ashamed !  He 
tried  to  take  it  on  a  sneak  in  under  the 
bed — I  mean  under  one  of  the  library 
tables— but  I  wouldn't  let  him,  and  I 
looked  him  over. 


BEARER  OF  THE  OLIVE  BRANCH.      11$ 

The  hero  of  a  hundred  battles  done 
up  beautifully. 

A  bandage  over  one  of  his  eyes, 
which  would  have  given  him  a  rakish 
appearance  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
other  end  of  him — his  tail — being  taut 
with  linen  bandages. 

He  tried  to  square  himself,  blinked 
his  one  good  eye  at  me,  flopped  down 
and  began  to  wag  his  tail.  I  say  be 
gan  because  he  only  gave  one  rap  on 
the  floor  with  it,  and  then  remembered 
the  damage  to  his  caudal  appendage. 

Well,  the  bandage  over  his  eye  at 
tracted  me. 

I  looked  closer  and — it  was  a  little 
handkerchief  with  my  Party's  initials. 

I  looked  again,  and  Bill's  collar  was 
gone. 

Perhaps  it  was  thought  waves  or 
something,  but  Bill  was  at  the  door 
before  I  knew  it,  and  I  went  with  him. 


Il6          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

Coming  through  The  Party's  block 
a  monstrous  big  tabby,  looking  a  little 
disorderly,  acted  very  belligerently,  at 
which  Bill  had  awfully  important 
business  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

"Pardon  me,  but  didn't  Bill  forget 
his  collar  here?"  I  asked  The  Party, 
after  thanking  her  for  doing  the  Red 
Cross  for  my  chum. 

She  went  over  to  the  bureau  and 
handed  me  the  big  leather  band  and 
— I  don't  know  how  it  happened — but 
our  fingers  met,  and  the  first  thing  I 
knew  I  said: 

"It's  a  lovely  day  for  a  walk,  ain't 
it?" 

Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short, 
Bill  took  it  all  in  and  got  so  excited 
that  he  gave  two  raps  with  his  tail  be 
fore  he  tried  to  bite  it. 

That  night  we  thought  we  heard  the 
finest  music  in  our  lives,  down  to  the 
park,  and  we  got  very  enthusiastic. 


BEARER  OF  THE  OLIVE  BRANCH.      I IJ 

And  when  we  were  going  home,  she 
said  to  me :  "Won't  you  sing  that  little 
favorite  song  of  yours?  You  know  I 
like  to  hear  it." 

I  knew  she  was  jollying  me,  but, 
anyway,  I  roared  my  ditty  and  was 
lucky  for  not  being  arrested  for  dis 
turbing  the  peace. 

And  Bill — he  got  the  indigestion 
from  the  many  pounds  of  frankfurters 
I  bought  for  him. 


XIV. 

A  BARGAIN  DAY. 

Listen ! 

It  is  only  my  good  nature  to  tell  you 
that  a  certain  event  will  soon  take 
place  in  our  social  set.  Ahem! 

The  nearer  the  day  approaches  trie 


Il8          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

more  The  Party  worries  about  her 
trousseau. 

There,  now,  I  told  you ! 

Consequence:  She  took  a  day  off 
and  I  was  ordered  to  report  as  escort. 

Now  I  know  more  about  chemisettes 
and  straight-front  corsets  than  I  ever 
did  before  in  my  life. 

And,  the  best  of  it  is,  she  always 
quite  seriously  asks  my  opinions. 

Ah,  but  it's  a  great  thing  to  have 
an  angelic  disposition.  When  we  do 
things  we  do  them  in  style  and  Four 
teenth  street — nothing  less — was  our 
field  of  operation. 

From  store  to  store  she  tripped  and 
I  stumbled,  being  kept  in  the  rear  by 
the  confounded,  slippery  bundles. 

All  you  could  see  of  me  was  my 
nose  and  mild  blue  eyes. 

"They  ain't  too  heavy?"  fluted  The 
Party. 


A   BARGAIN    DAY. 


"Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  and  a  few  more 
were  piled  on  top. 

(I  wonder  what  makes  a  truthful 
man  the  twin-brother  of  Satan  for 
lying  when  he's  in  love?) 

I  suggested  an  express  wagon,  but, 
no.  "They  smash  and  mix  them  so." 

Do  not  ask  how  we  got  back  to  the 
Bowery.  It  was  weird,  uncanny,  in 
terspersed  by  tears  from  The  Party 
and  forceful  language  from  the  con 
ductor  when  I  dropped  half  of  my 
load  in  getting  on  the  car. 

(Thank  heaven,  I'm  not  given  to 
profanity.) 

At  mother's  house,  just  a  mouthful, 
and  I  was  snared  away  to  Division 
street  to  "help"  The  Party  buy  a  hat. 

Ever  been  in  Division  street? 

From  Chatham  Square  to  the  hor 
izon  nothing  but  millinery  stores,  and 
a  female  "capper"  in  front  of  every 
one  of  them.  A  male  "puller-in"  is 


I2O          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

bad  enough,  but  a  female — heaven  pro 
tect  us. 

We  were  defeated  at  the  first  as 
sault  and  found  ourselves  in  a  store. 

Do  you  know  why  The  Party  had 
insisted  on  my  escort  ?  She  wanted  an 
efficient  critic,  and  I  liked  the  job. 

I  have  seen  some  magnificent  pic 
tures,  but  no  prettier  sight  has  ever 
been  beheld  by  me  than  The  Party  try 
ing  on  a  bonnet  in  front  of  the  mirror. 

That  little  stubby  nose  almost  be 
came  purple  with  straining.  The  fore 
head  was  crossed  by  tiny  wrinkles. 
And  the  head  swaying  from  side  to 
side,  nearly  revolved  entirely,  the 
bright  eyes  fairly  jumping  with  ani 
mation. 

Consequence:  I  kept  finding  fault 
just  to  have  the  vision  over  and  over 
again. 

But  I  got  my  reward  for  my  wicked 
ness. 


A  BARGAIN   DAY.  121 

We  were  in  the  fifth  store,  and  The 
Party  was  nettled  by  my  unsatisfactory 
criticism.  I  bethought  myself  of  my 
duty,  and,  having  lied  in  the  morn 
ing,  resolved  to  be  absolutely  truthful. 

The  very  first  hat  tried  on  was  a 
terrible  thing,  not  fit  for  a  queen  like 
my  Party. 

"How  does  it  look  ?"  She  turned  to 
me. 

"Fierce !"  I  answered  with  con 
viction. 

"Oh,  does  it?" 

And  now  the  date  is  postponed  in 
definitely. 


L'  ENVOI. 

When  criticising  a  Party's  bonnet 
tell  the  truth,  but  hide  it  under  several 
layers  of  sugar. 


122          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

XV. 

CORRESPONDENCE. 

Listen ! 

So  many  letters  have  come  to  me 
recently  asking  for  information  con 
cerning  The  Party  that  I  find  it  im 
possible  to  answer  them  all  by  mail 
and  will  endeavor  to  reply  to  my  corre 
spondents  in  the  following  way : 

TO  I.  K.  S. — I  am  sorry,  but  I  have 
only  one  photo  of  The  Party  and,  of 
course,  cannot  send  you  that.  Besides, 
to  be  quite  candid,  even  had  I  more,  I 
would  not  send  you  one.  I  do  not 
mean  to  be  rude,  but  have  good  rea 
sons  for  taking  this  stand.  Only  a 
short  time  ago  The  Party  informed  me 
that  her  employers  were  about  to  "put 
her  on  the  cans."  She  did  not  care  to 
tell  me  the  scheme  in  detail  and  I  was 
obliged  to  call  at  her  shop.  I  had  no 


CORRESPONDENCE.  123 

more  than  opened  the  door  when  I  was 
confronted  by  a  life-size  lithograph  of 
her  asking  me  to  "Say  Ku-Ku."  Now, 
I  feel  somewhat  flattered  at  this  tribute 
to  my  Party's  prettiness,  but  could 
not  permit  to  have  her  likeness  travel 
through  the  country  on  canned  soup 
or  tomatoes.  As  soon  as  oil  will  be 
cheaper  I  am  going  to  have  her 
painted,  and  then  you  and  others  can 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  picture 
in  the  museum  in  Central  Park.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  am  compelled  to  say 
that  I  do  not  think  you  are  overloaded 
with  courtesy  yourself.  You  were  not 
at  all  bashful  about  asking  for  The 
Party's  picture,  while  I  have  a  whole 
bunch  of  tintypes  of  myself,  which  I 
cannot  give  away  no  matter  how  hard 
I  try. 

TO  SUSIE  M.— I  am  very  glad  to 
hear  that  the  girl  who  works  along 
side  of  you  is  sufficiently  pretty  to  be 


124          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

suspected  of  being  The  Party,  but  am 
afraid  your  suspicions  are  wrong. 
She  is  not  following  your  trade,  and, 
furthermore,  does  not  work  alongside 
of  anybody,  but  has  been  promoted, 
and  now  quite  a  number  of  girls  work 
"under  me." 

TO  W.  M'C. — Let  me  assure  you 
that  The  Party  is  very  much  "flesh 
and  blood"  and  not  a  creation  of 
imagination.  I  ought  to  know,  be 
cause  I  had  the  pleasure  of  paying  for 
several  "little  bites"  after  coming  from 
some  affair.  Her  appetite  is  glorious ; 
even  ice-cream  is  not  despised  and  is 
eaten  without  any  partiality  to  any 
special  flavor.  Another  proof  of  her 
substantiality  should  be  the  fact  that 
I  love  her,  and,  being  a  very  ma 
terially-minded  fellow,  I  would  have 
serious  trouble  in  loving  a  phantom. 

TO  W.  N. — Your  request  is  some 
what  embarrassing.  You  will  under- 


CORRESPONDENCE.  125 

stand  it  is  no  easy  matter  for  me  to 
give  a  correct  and  yet  just  description 
of  The  Party.  Were  I  to  tell  how 
she  appears  to  me  you  would  doubt 
my  sanity  or  else  take  me  for  a  crazy 
poet.  All  I  can  say  is  that  she  has  the 
full  allowance  of  ears,  eyes  and  limbs ; 
wears  her  light  hair  out  of  style,  be 
cause  I  insist  on  the  little  curl  on  the 
forehead,  which  is  now  out  of  date; 
has  never  been  to  a  dentist — therefore 
has  two  shining  rows  ot  teeth,  framed 
by  a  mouth  which  can  pout,  smile, 
pucker  up  for  a  certain  purpose  and 
tell  some  plain  home  truths  in  a  man 
ner  both  refreshing  and  fearless ;  does 
not  wear  horse  buckles  on  the  tiniest 
brogans  ever  made,  and  is  just  tall 
enough  to  bring  the  aforesaid  little 
curl  on  an  exact  level  with  my  lips. 
Should  you  wish  to  get  a  look  at  her 
let  me  tell  you  that  she  passes  through 
Chambers  street  every  morning  at  8 


126          THE   PARTY   SKETCHES. 

A.  M.,  accompanied  by  a  certain  in 
dividual,  more  able-bodied  than  hand 
some.  This  same  individual,  should 
you  care  to  ask  him,  will  give  you  the 
most  convincing  proof  that  you  are  at 
the  right  address.  Hope  to  meet  you 
some  morning. 

TO  MISS  E.  L.— You  ask  by  what 
name  I  address  The  Party  and  what 
her  name  is,  as  you  cannot  conceive 
her  being  called  "Party"  by  me  in 
daily  intercourse.  The  reasons  for  not 
giving  her  name  are  somewhat  similar 
to  those  refusing  the  request  for  the 
photo.  I  do  not  care  to  have  her  go 
up  in  smoke  by  having  cigars  named 
after  her;  neither  do  I  care  to  have 
chewing  gum  or  chocolate  kisses  or 
corsets  or  tomato  catsup  identified 
with  her.  As  to  what  I  call  her,  why, 
just  pause  for  a  moment  and  think 
what  your  "he"  calls  you.  If  he  loves 
you  as  I  love  my  Party  we  surely  have 


CORRESPONDENCE.  127 

taken  our  terms  of  endearment  from 
the  same  dictionary.  My  Party  won't 
stand  for  anything  silly  and  I  never 
offer  it,  but,  surely,  there  is  a  long  list 
to  choose  from,  beginning  with  that — 
well — "tootsie-wootsie"  to  plain  "my 
girl"  or  "girl  o'  mine." 


LITTLE  STORIES   FROM 
OUR   STREETS 


LITTLE    STORIES    FROM   OUR 
STREETS. 

I. 

CANAL   STREET   AND   THE   BOWERY. 

DO    you    know    John    Horn- 
blower?     Perhaps   you    do 
not.     And    therefore    it    is 
necessary  to  tell  you  something  about 
him.    My  friend  Hornblower  is  a  man 
of  affairs,  known  to  almost  everybody. 
This  latter  is  accounted  for  by  the  fact 
that  he  is  a  "joiner." 

A  "joiner"  is  a  man  who  belongs  to 
every  club,  society  and  lodge  in  exist 
ence  and  spends  his  spare  hours  in 
organizing  new  ones. 


132     STORIES  FROM   OUR   STREETS. 

Naturally,  John  Hornblower  is  al 
ways  on  the  go  or  on  the  jump.  He 
has  to  be  by  the  nature  of  things,  al 
though  he  does  not  approve  of  it  in 
theory. 

This  morning  I  felt  him,  before  I 
saw  him. 

I  stood  at  the  corner  of  Canal  street 
and  the  Bowery,  when  somebody  tried 
to  make  a  lasting  impression  on  my 
back. 

It  was  John  Hornblower,  and,  as 
usual,  on  the  go. 

"Pardon  me,  old  man,  for  trying  to 
break  your  back,  but  you  know  how 
it  is,  I'm  in  a  hurry  and  want  to  catch 
the  next  car.  It  is  beastly  brutal  to 
have  to  rush  about  thusly,  but  present 
day  conditions  make  it  obligatory." 

Within  five  seconds  we  were  in  a 
heated  discussion,  or  rather  Horn- 
blower  was,  defending  his  practice  by 
his  theory. 


CANAL  STREET  AND  BOWERY.    133 

"You  can  say  what  you  like,  you  can 
call  it  what  you  like,  aggressiveness, 
goaheadiveness,  push,  energy ;  the  fact 
remains  that  it  is  a  state  approaching 
cannibalism  to  see  men,  presumably 
intelligent  men,  rush  about  like  sav 
ages." 

"Collar  buttons,  shoestrings,  sus 
penders  !" 

A  Bowery  peddler  offered  his  wares. 

''No,  my  good  man,  I  don't  need 
anything,"  said  Hornblower.  "There, 
we  ought  to  take  example  by  this 
peddler.  Peaceably  and  peacefully  he 
goes  through  life,  endeavoring  to 
make  his  modest  living  without  giving 
offense  to  any  one,  while  we,  the 
respectable  business  men,  must  madly 
trample  on  the  feet  and  rights  of 
others,  disregarding  all  decency  in 
striving  after  our  aims.  I  want  to  tell 
you,  dear  friend,  that  this  confounded 
strenuousness — " 


134    STORIES   FROM    OUR   STREETS. 

"Collar  buttons,  shoestrings,  sus 
penders  !" 

"No,  no,  my  man,  I  told  you  before 
I  don't  need  anything,"  said  Horn- 
blower  impatiently.  "As  I  was  saying 
before  the  peddler  interrupted  me,  this 
confounded  strenuousness  which  has 
settled  upon  us  is  a  blemish  in  our 
national  character.  It  is  a  vice,  ever- 
spreading,  all-absorbing;  it  saps  all 
that  is  good  within  us  because  it  is  the 
essence  of  selfishness.  Let  me  ask 
you,  and  through  you  the  American 
people,  to  desist  in  our  mad  rush  and 
to  be  observing  of  the  rights  of  our 
neighbors,  to  be  all  brothers  of  one 
grand  brotherhood  and  to — there's  my 
car.  So  long." 

Hornblower,  like  a  shot  catapulted 
for  his  car,  collided  with  the  peddler 
and  sent  him  and  his  wares  a-sprawl- 
ing. 

But  he  caught  his  car. 


CANAL   STREET   AND   BOWERY.    135 

While  helping  the  peddler  to  gather 
his  scattered  stock  I  vainly  endeavored 
to  convince  him  that  the  logical  results 
of  theories  are  the  most  unreliable 
things  to  depend  on. 

II. 
COOPER   SQUARE. 

Is  there  a  set  of  workers  more  uni 
versally  abhorred  than  the  truck  driv 
ers  ?  Hardly. 

Therefore  this  little  story,  good  un 
der  any  circumstances,  is  especially 
good. 

Here  and  there  in  the  city  we  have 
drinking  troughs  for  horses.  They  are 
not  as  many  as  they  should  be  and  not 
complete  enough,  for  only  a  few  have 
a  smaller  trough  at  the  base  for  dogs. 

The  one  on  Cooper  Square  has  the 
trough  for  dogs. 


136  STORIES  FROM  OUR  STREETS. 

A  little  fellow  of  the  tramp-dog 
breed — surely  they  are  a  breed;  look 
at  their  sameness  and  you  will  agree 
with  me — who  seemed  to  be  a  steady 
customer  at  this  particular  fount  made 
his  way  direct  to  the  basin. 

With  him  a  team  of  big,  bulky 
horses,  pulling  a  heavy  truck,  arrived 
there. 

There  was  much  rattling  of  iron 
chains  and  plunging  and  backing  of 
horses,  not  mentioning  the  roaring 
"Whoas"  and  "Git  ups"  of  the  driver. 

Small  wonder  the  little  yellow  tramp 
was  frightened  and  drew  back  shiver- 
ingly. 

But  when  the  horses  had  settled 
down  to  the  enjoyment  of  their  re 
freshment  the  dog  made  for  its  trough 
— and  found  it  empty. 

Perhaps  the  pipe  was  out  of  order 
or  the  water  supply  cut  off.  What- 


COOPER  SQUARE.  137 

ever  the  cause,  the  trough  was  dry  and 
empty  and  doggie  was  thirsty. 

To  jump  to  the  large  trough  above 
was  out  of  the  question.  Besides,  there 
were  those  big,  awful  horses,  and 
nothing  was  left  but  to  lick  the  few 
wasted  drops  from  the  paving  stones. 

A  man  had  watched  the  dog's 
despair. 

And  just  as  the  truck  driver  backed 
his  horses  away  from  the  trough  he 
lifted  the  little  outcast  to  where  water 
was  in  plenty. 

The  dread  of  human  touch,  only 
known  to  him  by  kicks  and  beatings, 
made  the  poor  mongrel  tremble  with 
fear  and  unable  to  partake  of  the 
proffered  drink. 

The  truck  driver  saw  it  and  came 
over. 

"Ah,  you  poor  son  of  a  gun !"  was 
all  he  said  before  making  a  cup  of  his 


138    STORIES  FROM   OUR  STREETS. 

hands  and  holding  it  full  to  the  fam 
ished  little  fellow's  lips. 

And  the  dog? 

Why,  he  drank,  drank  greedily, 
then  jumped  to  the  ground,  gave  one 
squeaky  bark  and  scampered  away 
with  drooping  tail. 

The  truck  driver  said  nothing,  but 
jumped  onto  his  seat  and  cracked  his 
whip. 

Once  I  saw  him  turn  back  and  look 
at  the  measly  little  mongrel. 

And  now,  isn't  that  called  divine 
compassion  or  something?  But  what 
is  the  use  of  calling  it  anything? 

It  happened — that's  enough! 

III. 

TWENTY-FIFTH  STREET. 

He  who  rambles  for  pleasure  or 
profit  is  destined  to  see  many  sights 
and  incidents,  which,  at  times,  make 


TWENTY-FIFTH    STREET.          139 

one  lose  faith  in  humanity,  and,  again, 
make  one  believe  in  it  with  all  the  en 
thusiasm  of  one's  soul. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  I 
came  through  Twenty-fifth  street. 

A  short  distance  from  the  corner  is 
the  glass  and  iron  awning  which  cov 
ers  the  approach  to  the  side  entrance 
of  one  of  our  gigantic  hotels.  Near 
this  awning  stood  a  carriage,  which, 
one  could  see  at  a  glance,  was  a  pri 
vate,  and  very  elegant,  equipage. 

Just  as  I  passed  the  carriage  a  young 
man  leaned  from  its  window  and  gave 
an  order  to  the  coachman.  I  only  had 
a  glance  at  him,  but  it  had  been  enough 
to  note  the  serious,  anguished  expres 
sion  of  his  face. 

Before  I  reached  the  corner  the  car 
riage,  with  its  sad  occupant,  was  driven 
at  a  walk  down  the  block. 

At  the  intersection  of  the  streets  I 
met  my  old  friend,  Officer  Flanagan, 


I4O  STORIES  FROM  OUR  STREETS. 

and  we  were  soon  earnestly  discussing 
the  merits  of  the  recent  primaries.  Al 
though  interested  in  our  talk,  I  did  not 
fail  to  notice  that  the  carriage  kept  up 
and  down  the  block  at  a  walking  gait 
and  that  the  young  man  within  kept  a 
watchful  eye  on  the  entrance  to  the 
hotel. 

Suddenly,  an  employee  of  the  hotel 
stepped  to  the  sidewalk  and  seemed  to 
give  a  signal,  which  was  answered  by 
the  carriage  hurrying  to  the  massive 
awning. 

The  young  man  sprang  from  the 
coach  and  ran  to  the  door  of  the  side 
entrance,  where  a  portly,  gray-haired 
man,  leaning  on  two  liveried  porters, 
seemed  to  be  awaiting  his  coming.  One 
of  the  servants  was  quickly  replaced  by 
the  youth,  who,  with  his  arm  around 
the  old  man's  waist,  began  to  lead  him 
to  the  carriage. 


TWENTY-FIFTH   STREET.          14! 

My  curiosity  had  drawn  me  to  the 
scene  and  I  could  not  help  seeing  the 
old  man's  condition.  To  prevent  any 
doubt  concerning  it  he  broke  into 
maudlin  speech. 

"Hello,  my  son.  (hie)  Great  sport 
to-night — (hie) — I  never " 

"Father,  father,  please  keep  silent," 
murmured  the  son. 

"Whatsh  the  matter?  They're  all 
good  fellows  and  I " 

They  had  reached  the  carriage,  and, 
with  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  succeeded 
in  bundling  the  old  man  into  it.  Then 
the  son  gave  his  final  order  to  the 
coachman. 

"John,  my  father  is  not  feeling  very 
well  to-night  and  I'd  like  to  have  you 
drive  us  home  through  some  quiet 
street." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

A  touch  of  the  whip,  and  they  had 
started  for  the  quiet  avenue  below. 


142  STORIES  FROM  OUR  STREETS. 

I  rejoined  my  friend  Flanagan. 

"Remarkable  case,"  I  commented, 
not  knowing  what  else  to  say. 

"Well,  it  is  and  it  isn't.  I  seen  it 
so  often  that  I'm  used  to  it." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  this 
scene  is  played  here  every  night?" 

"That's  what  it  is,  and,  chances  are, 
it  will  be  played  many  more  nights." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"There  ain't  much  to  tell.  The  old 
gent  used  to  be  one  of  the  sports  when 
this  used  to  be  the  hang-out  of  the 
swift  crowds,  years  ago,  and  the  habit 
got  such  a  hold  on  him  that  he  can't 
stay  away  for  a  single  night." 

"But  the  son  mentioned  to  the  coach 
man  that  his  father  was  ill  and,  surely, 
he  wouldn't  say  that  if  this  happened 
every  night." 

"He  says  it  every  night,  thinking 
he's  shielding  the  old  gent  by  it,  and 
there  ain't  a  soul  'round  here  that 


TWENTY-FIFTH   STREET.          143 

doesn't  try  to  look  as  if  he  believed 
the  son's  gag,  just  to  make  the  young 
fellow  feel  a  little  better." 

We  stood  silent  for  a  while,  follow 
ing  different  trains  of  thought.  Then, 
Flanagan  spoke  again. 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  son  like  him." 

"Why  ?  To  see  you  safely  home  after 
a  strenuous  session  at  the  ginmill?"  I 
asked  facetiously. 

"No,  not  because  of  that,"  replied 
Flanagan  with  strange  seriousness, 
"but  because  of  his  loyalty." 

IV. 

CATHARINE  STREET. 

I  came  along  Catharine  street  from 
the  ferry  at  the  foot  of  it. 

In  the  very  first  block  from  the 
water  front  shone  dimly  a  transparent 
sign  over  the  door  of  a  mission.  Al 
though  not  later  than  9  o'clock,  *he 


144  STORIES  FROM  OUR  STREETS. 

neighborhood  was  quiet  and  deserted, 
save  when  an  incoming  ferry  boat  sent 
its  cargo  through  the  street.  This 
quietness  helped  to  make  the  melody 
which  came  from  the  mission  more  im 
pressive. 

I  heard, 

"What  a  friend  we  have  in  Jesus," 
and  stopped  to  listen  to  this  dear  old 
message,  ever  assuring. 

But  my  communion  was  disturbed. 

The  door  of  the  mission  swung  open 
and  through  it  came  a  man,  slamming 
it  rudely  behind  him. 

"There's  no  religion  in  there." 

He  did  not  address  himself  to  me. 
Rather,  he  flung  his  assertion  to  the 
winds,  but  it  gave  me  an  excuse  to  in 
quire  into  his  perturbed  state  of  mind. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  there  is 
no  religion  in  that  mission?"  I  asked. 

"That's  just  what  I  mean,"  he 
growled  angrily.  "God  knows  that  if 


CATHARINE   STREET.  145 

there's  a  man  who  needs  religion  and 
wants  it  it's  me,  but  I  can't  find  it  in 
there." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not  ?"  he  repeated,  disgusted 
ly.  "Because  I've  been  through  the  mill, 
young  fellow.  I'm  only  after  coming 
from  jail  this  morning,  and  while  I  was 
there  I  did  a  pile  of  thinking.  And  I 
came  to  the  concluson  that  there's 
nothing  in  wasting  your  life  in  prison." 

That  in  itself  was  encouraging  and 
as  I  looked  at  the  stalwart  lad  before 
me,  not  at  all  resembling  the  proverbial 
ex-convict,  I  firmly  resolved  to  supple 
ment  the  work  of  the  mission. 

"So,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  reli 
gion,"  he  continued.  "And  to-night 
I  came  down  here,  ready  to  cut  out  all 
the  old  business  and  start  a  new  life. 
But,  you  can't  do  it  in  there,  with  all 
them  frauds  in  there  for  nothing  only 


146    STORIES   FROM   OUR   STREETS. 

free  bed  tickets.  I  don't  want  a  bed 
ticket,  I  only  want  religion." 

Clearly,  this  was  my  cue  to  begin 
my  exhortation.  Quickly  recalling  the 
points  I  wanted  to  make  particularly 
strong,  I  was  about  to  begin  my  dig 
nified  discourse  when — 

"If  you  want  religion  you  can  have 
it,  my  friend,  in  or  without  a  mission." 

Unnoticed  by  either  the  grumbler  or 
me,  an  old  man  had  joined  us  at  the 
curb.  Neither  one  of  us  wished  to  re 
sent  the  intrusion,  as,  below  the  wide- 
brimmed  hat,  a  wonderful  face  shone 
a  greeting. 

"It's  over  twenty  years  ago  that  I, 
as  you  now,  leaned  against  that  lamp 
post  and  declared  with  conviction  that 
there  was  no  religion.  I  almost  cursed 
religion  and  worked  myself  into  a 
fury.  But  furies  do  not  last  long,  and, 
after  mine  had  spent  itself,  it  came  to 
me  that  if  there  was  no  religion,  there 


CATHARINE   STREET.  147 

was  still  God,  He  of  the  ever  and  for 
ever — and  I  found  him  without 
trouble." 

It  was  not  at  all  what  I  had  in 
tended  to  say.  It  was  the  simple  re 
cital  of  a  simple  experience,  while  my 
discourse  had  been  intended  to  dispel 
the  grumbler's  doubts  with  the  sledge 
hammer  force  of  dogmatic  theology. 

Still  I  did  not  interfere  and  list 
ened, — 

"That  was  twenty  years  ago,"  re 
sumed  the  old  man,  "yet,  this  lamp 
post,  this  street,  this  mission  are  the 
same  to-night  as  then,  and,  so  is  He, 
the  same  to-night  as  then.  And  now, 
my  friend " 

I  realized  that  this  was  not  the  right 
opportunity  for  me  to  find  the  proper 
appreciation  for  my  impromptu  ser 
mon,  and  started  on  my  way. 

At  the  next  corner  I  turned  to  see 
what  had  become  of  the  two,  the 


148  STORIES  FROM  OUR  STREETS. 

grumbler  and  the  faithful.  The  old 
man  had  one  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulder,  and  both,  with  uplifted  faces, 
seemed  to  see  naught  but  the  stars  and 
sky  above  them. 

Just  then  came  from  the  mission  the 
song  of  assurance  for  foul  and  clean : 

"Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 


REAVY  IN  JULY 

Whether  Democrat  or  Repub 
lican,  Man,  Woman  or  Youth 

You  will  appreciate  the  humor, 
truth  and  satire  of        ::        ;: 

Letters  of  a  Politician 
to  His  Son 


The  text-book  for  the  coming  campaign. 

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..."  With  the  many  laughs  which  the 
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truth." 

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